


The Millennium Deal - Six: Exodus

by Cara_Loup



Series: The Millennium Deal [7]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Telepathic Bond, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cara_Loup/pseuds/Cara_Loup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So...” Han swiveled his chair, an unaccountable change in his tone. “I’ve asked you this before. Where do we go from here?”<br/>He remembered. And it felt more like sliding backwards into the fullness of night on Endor, the scent of bonfires and the mixed taste of liberation. Smoky twilight closing around Han as he crossed the walkway.<br/>“And I never answered.” A shade of regret lingered and faded across a slow arc of time and silence. “Where do <i>you</i> want to go?” Luke asked back.<br/>“Me?” Han flipped another look at the flight console as if checking for course computations. “Anywhere, I guess. I never had a calling like you. Or Leia. Then again, I’ve had my time of traveling and fooling around.” His glance snapped up, suddenly fraught with edgy demands. “I’m askin’ <i>you</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Millennium Deal - Six: Exodus

** Six: Exodus **

The demented scene swam in shades of fire and anarchy. Han staggered as something wrenched out of him, shattering into vacuum the moment Luke went slack in his hold.

The Falcon’s flight had ended, and he was caught at the fault line of entropy, a violent clash of wave to hull pulsing like gunshots against his spine, but he couldn’t turn, couldn’t move. This was it, this was zero point zero and counting backwards.

He fumbled for his comlink to alert Castor and the brigadeers. “Backup to me on the double!” he barked. “Get Luke outta here!”

One hand clutched over Luke’s chest, at the thready reassurance of pulse through his tunic. At his back, Chewie howled impotent protest. Han screwed his eyes shut against the mad swirl of torchlights while he reeled off furious orders, and his own voice bounced back at him through metallic distortions.

On every side, crowds surged and wavered in confused motion, but he couldn’t spare a thought for them, not for Gol and his freak show and the whole millennium frenzy, not now. Let the brigades handle the rest of it, or Lando’s troops, he didn’t care.

“Ain’t got no moment to waste...” He’d lowered Luke to the ground, head and shoulders pillowed against him. Slipping into tunnel vision as his hands checked vital signs in a flurry. Pulse, breath, clammy skin.

Chewbacca crouched behind them, a living, snarling shield against the wild-eyed panic that threatened on the edges of his mind. _If I could make a goddamn wish, just one_... And the choice he’d made trapped him like a gunsight, no help for it now.

“Gotta make another call,” Han rasped.

Fragments of sight and sound leapt at him as he ripped the comlink from his belt. The hard nightsky above, frosted with stars. A ruddy glow foraged in the bay and spattered the surf, sparked and faded in time with the fretful murmur of voices and restless water. Han listened into waves of static, the click of several relays like the cogwheels of judgment until a perky voice answered him.

“This is Solo, got an emergency here.” Distant sounds strumming through the vicious throb in his temples.

“Yes, Minister Organa apprised me of—”

“Good.” A quick breath bit into his lungs. “What about the antidote?”

“We’re working on something, sir,” answered the lab chief, “but it’s still in the testing stage.”

“Get it here, right now.” Han paused for breath, calculations exploding thick and fast out of numbness. “No, listen, we’ll get him to you, but you could meet us halfway.”

With a choked drone, Castor’s glider pulled up beside the cliff, and the lab chief was still talking.

“We don’t have time!” Han snapped at him. “You read me? Get a freakin’ shuttle up in the air right now and we’ll keep in touch — you know _who_ we’re talking about here?”

Yes, the man had been apprised of that, too. His caveats faltered into silence.

Han let the comlink drop, and it rolled on the cliff, rocking back and forth in the grip of nightmare. Memories feeding on him, each collapsing into the same refrain.

 _just one wish only one_...

Luke’s forehead glistened with sweat, suddenly burning under his palm. Up in the south, a dull gleam throbbed like another fever through the clouds.

“The clinic isn’t that far.” Dirt sprayed up as Castor vaulted over the glider’s side.

“Right.” Han braced one hand against the grainy rock. Chewbacca’s moan warmed the back of his neck, and the furry bulk shoved into his spine for support. “Okay, gotta get him up.”

A shiver of motion from Luke stopped him. A rough whisper took on the shape of his name.

“That’s right, Luke, I’m here.” His hand wrapped hard around cold fingers. The jump of pulse under pressure fired like a bullet into his nerves.

“Han...” The voice was dreamy and slurred, as if floating up from the depth of a well. Luke rubbed at his eyes and sent a hazy glance into the southern sky. “Did y’see that?”

A city in the sky. Towers, domes and phantom doorways peeling out of the brightness in the south, above the Falcon’s swerve, before clouds had eclipsed the moment’s delirium.

“Yeah, I could see it too.” His voice a stubborn rasp of disbelief.

But something had splayed his thoughts from inside — giant wings rushing with a knowledge of winds, a fear of drowning — and he came close to telling Luke about the crazy notions jostling forward in his head, like his grandad’s face flashing from the Falcon’s cockpit, and damned if he couldn’t get a grip on himself.

“...an’ I could feel _you_ ,” Han added.

His eyes searched the sky for a moment, assessing the Mantura’s retreat. Slender needles of laser-fire stitched abrasively across his sight.

“What you did when you flew the Falcon,” he said, words hustling forward without a clear rationale, “can you do that now? Can you draw on me to hold on?”

 _Ambush_ , he realized with another part of his mind, cannonfire lashing out at Gol’s ship... from an Alliance battle group, goddamnit. It had to be them, even though they’d vowed not to attack before —

“I don’t know if...” Luke’s fingers shook a little, then squeezed hard, and his eyes traveled slowly in the same direction. “You’ll need your strength. Han, you need to _go_ ―”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere!”

“You have to. All those people... you know your way around Gol’s ship...”

How many had climbed into Gol’s barges, hauled aboard like trusting cattle? And now they’d jump the last hurdle that much faster. The crisscrossing blasts up there zapped Han like ground lightning.

“They’ll listen to you, cap,” Castor threw in and refused to wilt under his glare. “I can take Luke to the clinic.”

“How much time do we have?” That was a question he could only blurt out, keeping it vague and his mind shuttered against the ultimate limit he was asking for.

“Long enough.” Luke breathed harshly. “You must go.”

The necessity pushed its overbearing momentum into him, past every layer of resistance. Han placed a hand against the side of Luke’s face, where the fever’s rapid progress spread a wild flush. “Under one condition. You keep up this connection with me. You’ll take whatever you need from me, right?”

 _And I can tell if you do_.

Doubt and protest flickered for a beat, overcome by the start of a smile. The warmth of it tingled against his palm, shivered into his fingertips with a subtle pulse that fanned out through his nervous system. Settling with a shudder that clinched the deal.

“All right.” Han levered to his feet, and when he helped Luke into the bobbing glider, the shakiness in his own stomach pitched again, then let up. Damnit, he had to keep it together now, dig his heels into tactical matters and stay there. From the side, Castor studied him, eloquent worry lines raking his forehead.

“You watch over him,” Han snapped, and made himself release Luke’s hand at last. “No matter what.”

Some hundred meters across, the Falcon rocked on the water, safe and undamaged for all he could see. Someone would have to ferry them over, across the commotion of distraught Skylars wading up and down the receding shallows and the voices of brigadeers demanding that everyone settle down, settle down now and listen.

At the foot of the cliff flared Antram’s white hair like a thatch of straw too close to a fire. Han leaned over, shouting, “get a shuttle, I need backup at the Falcon right away,” and it occurred to him only when the old man responded in hand signals over the din that he should have used the comlink. Beside him, Chewie sniffed the night air with feral relish.

“C’mon,” Han said, more to himself. “We’re going.”

 

The Falcon churned out of the water, repulsors struggling with the gravity parameters of a foreign element. On the beach, the mass of torches shrunk to mere specks like particles of red dirt, and time seemed to narrow down at the same rate. A ribbon stretched thin between the Falcon and Castor’s glider in its frantic race for the clinic.

 _‘M with you, Luke, all the way_. Tight beats of fear behind his breastbone jammed Han’s breath. All he could do was restrict himself to the near limits of reality, to maneuvers and tactical hazards ahead, nothing else. Another kind of entrapment.

“Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this mess.” He stabbed at the com unit, drumming a tense staccato against the console until he’d raised Leia. “What’s going on? Who’s responsible for this stunt?”

“That isn’t Lando’s group up there,” she answered angrily, the strain of fatigue sharp in her voice.

“Then who?”

“Madine’s segment of the fleet. They broke orbit when the Mantura reversed course and headed for open space.” Something in Leia’s tone suggested a prolonged debate over that strategy. “Madine felt that the risk of collateral damage was minimal if they attacked straight above the ocean, and Gol’s chances of escape are much slimmer that way.”

“Yeah, problem is, he’s got several hundred _innocents_ aboard by now. Everyone who fell for his song ‘n dance.” And Teragk’s daughter, Han recalled suddenly, if she’d survived exposure to the mutant virus.

“What do you want me to do?” Leia asked briskly. “I suppose you have a plan to resolve this situation?”

“I’m goin’ in with fifteen brigadeers. By now, all those wide-eyed believers gotta realize that Gol’s ship’s a training camp, not some divine haven.”

“I’ll tell Madine to cut back until you’ve given it a try.” She paused, abruptly switching gears. “How is Luke?”

“On his way to the clinic by now. They’re still experimenting with the antidote...” Han imagined he could hear a catch in her breath and went on fast, “He told the people out here who his father was. Just so you know.”

Another pause pulled tight across surging static. “Good luck,” Leia said at length, completely expressionless. “Get in touch if you need anything.”

“Count on it,” Han returned grimly.

Across his board ran a welter of readings, the Mantura a splodge of bright gold behind her active shields. Chewbacca snarled at the bristle of defensive energy.

“Don’t worry, Chewie... I think someone’ll open a back door for us.” Han punched in another code, hoping to hell he hadn’t promised too much.

For several seconds, the com pulsed a lonesome homing signal, then the channel opened with a hiss, and one word spluttered through. “Yes.”

“I figured you could use a ride back down before the old bucket goes to pieces.” Han took a shot at nonchalant tones and managed a poor imitation.

“Don’t make me laugh, Solo,” Jiffra Kemál answered in a low, pressured voice. “What d’you want? And make it fast, we’ve got one hell of a situation here.”

“Docking space,” he told her. “Can you smuggle us in so that no one’ll notice?”

“Shouldn’t be so hard. Everyone aboard’s got their hands full of problems right now.”

“Thought so. Meet me there, okay?”

“You bet I will.” Her breath hitched on a dry chuckle. “I’ll want that free ride too. Now let me find a berth for you.”

When the Falcon tore past the gauzy clouds, a harsh glow broke across the viewport, streaming out of the south where the alignment shone like a lesser sun. Up ahead, the Mantura swam like an obstinate corpse in the stratosphere, angled vaguely for deep space. Corvettes and blockade runners flanked her, lacing the girderwork with licks of cannonfire, but all shooting for the kill had clearly been called off. Gol’s crew would be living it up now, taking advantage of that lull.

Inside another minute, coordinates flitted across the Falcon’s nav display and disappeared again like a magic number.

“See? That’s the ticket.” Han clenched his teeth at the twist of apprehension in his stomach. “We’re goin’ in.”

 

From a docking port on a lower level, Jiffra led them through a hall swamped with diffuse echoes and shadows, another rathole made for sneaking and slinking.

“’Round twenty guards are watching over our guests in the main hangar,” she told them when they’d all crowded into a service lift.

Han could picture the scene in vivid colors. “Bet they loved that welcome.”

“There’ll be more guns in the corridor,” Jiffra said over the rattle of the lift cage. “I was supposed to be on watch one level down. If anyone’s noticed I cut the shielding in that section to let you dock, they’ll have brought in backup by now.”

“We’re ready to go through them.” With a slap to the hilt of his rifle, Antram dashed one of his pep-up looks around the troupe of fourteen brigadeers. “All blasters set to stun, wide fan.”

Han kept his eyes on Jiffra, the nervous lines that twitched at the corners of her mouth. She could string them along into a sweet little trap, provide Gol with another bunch of idiot hostages, but she’d stare down his gun muzzle that very moment. Not likely. Truth to tell, he was pretty much sold on her story.

 _Just give us time_... Han’s fingers gripped for the blaster hilt and slipped damply on the cool metal. The shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream owed nothing to mixed odds and expectable mayhem. He thought, _Luke_ — and every unhinged notion caught on a sudden inner stillness, alive and expanding like a slowly indrawn breath. A sensation he recognized, alien as it was, and intimate like Luke’s touch on his skin. Han wrapped his thoughts around it for another moment.

He’d _know_ if something happened, he could rough-ride the Falcon down to the clinic in twenty minutes flat, and that would have to be good enough.

Antram was first to throw his bulk against the sluggish lift door, the living image of a flushed youngster spoiling for a fight.

They burst into the corridor after him, fanned out between blasts zipping back and forth, and the shadowmen went down so fast, Han lost track of numbers, just kept the bolts flying until they were clear by the hangar portal. No casualties on their side either. Not yet.

A thick burble of voices floated out of the hangar, curdled as smoke in the pasty lighting when the doors started rumbling aside — just before the scene dissolved into another shoot-out. Gol’s men must have been twitching on the edge of their nerve for a while, their return fire coming rash and dissolute.

Han tackled a gunman to the deck and heard the vicious zing of Chewie’s bowcaster next to him while the crowd blurred into a bewildered mass of pale faces. A random bolt struck the bulkhead past his shoulder — too close, he’d better bring his reflexes back up to speed — but it turned out to be a parting shot before all the confused clamor settled into rough coils of alarm. The raw material for a stampede.

Han cast a look around and sprinted towards a cargo lifter in the corner, so he could deliver the speech he should’ve considered before. At a guess, three hundred unwitting recruits had been corraled in the hangar, and a bunch of them turned expectant looks on him as he climbed the lifter’s cab. But tell them they’d be shot out of the sky in a matter of minutes, and they might just opt for the fast lane towards happier hunting grounds.

“Hey, listen!” Han fired a blast straight up, hitting the globe of an ancient arclight high overhead that went out with a spectacular boom and a rainfall of crunched glassite. “Listen everybody, you’re running out of time!”

More eyes wavered towards him, gauging him with suspicion and fuzzy interest. Han pushed his blaster back into the holster to raise empty hands. “Where d’you think you’ll go from here?”

“We’ll be told,” a man in the front answered, shoulders hunched in defiance and uncertainty.

“Oh, you’ll be _told_!” Han made sure to put a sarcastic spin on the word. “And I thought this was all about liberated Corellians!”

The mutters that went up were topped by someone shouting, “We’re here because our faith has set us free!”

“Oh yeah?” Han made an effort to brace his temper with reasonable argument. “If you’re so free, why’re you waitin’ for some divine call? You don’t need any gods to make decisions for you, and you sure as hell don’t need orders from Captain Gol!” Blurry apprehensions shifted across the faces that were turned towards him. “You’ve seen him down by the bay,” Han went on, “a greedy old man with a grudge, that’s all he is. Not a _believer_.”

“Are we supposed to take orders from you then?” questioned a different voice, loaded with resentment.

“Well, suit yourself,” Han shot back. “Look, I’m not representing the Alliance here. If you want them off Corellia, if you don’t wanna be a part of the whole thing, go ’n do something about it. Change your situation, but make it your own choice, that’s all I’m saying.”

“They’re firing on us!” someone cried and drew a round of worried shouts with that.

“They’re trying to get Gol,” Han countered. “You wanna follow _his_ plan or your own? The way it looks, this is your last chance to get off this ship.”

“Or take control of it.” That was Antram’s voice, scaling up from the direction of the hangar portals.

Han bit down on a derisive retort — the square root of all that rampant fighting spirit equaled nothing but trouble — but he’d tried hard enough to preach reason where reason had long taken a back seat. He could feel the mood turn, revolve around an accidenttal pivot. Divisions seemed to run through the crowd like ripples through a cornfield, vacillating between alarm and a reckless bustle.

“We can take control of this ship,” Antram repeated loudly. “We can make a new start right here!”

And perhaps the notion to channel all the disparate energy towards a clear objective had its perks after all.

“There’s an armory on the next level,” Jiffra said from the back of the lifter. “Suppose we could get there...”

“Might be worth a try.” Han jumped to the deck, pushing towards Antram through a crush of bodies and breeding agitation.

 _How many goons aboard?_ he wondered. Had to be about two hundred left, all of them trained pluggers, but a fair number would be tied up at their posts. At least twenty had to be manning the gun ports.

“You really think this is a good idea?” he asked Antram when Chewbacca had nudged a final cluster of bystanders out of their path.

“This way, they won’t feel that coming here was for nothing,” the old man returned, his face florid and his pluck screwed up high enough to hit the roof. Some steps to the side, several Skylars were looting a pair of stunned guards for guns and knives.

“Guess you got a point there.” Han lowered his voice. “I gotta look for the hostage, if she’s still alive.” His sidelong glance found Jiffra adjusting her wrist-holster. “How about it? You find out what happened to her?”

“’M not sure.” Jiffra chewed on her lower lip. “Someone was taking rations to the dead decks a couple of days ago, so maybe they still got someone cooped up there, but I can’t tell you if it’s her.”

“’Least it’s a lead.” Han threw another glance back over the crowd. “We gotta get those who want to leave to the shuttles right away.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Antram said and landed a fatherly hand on Han’s shoulder. “You’d better go. Your Alliance friends’re bound to get twitchy if we take too long.”

“Right. Contact me if you need anything, and I’ll try talking to Madine.” While chaos declined into marginal order, Han’s control frayed under another upthrust of impatience. “If you find Gol,” he added, “save him for me, will ya?”

His mind swarmed with speculation as he jogged back to the lift, Jiffra and Chewie in tow. Wherever Gol had holed up, he’d get his due payment in one form or another, Han told himself, though a blast right between the eyes happened to be his favorite scenario. The goddamn bastard had done worse than fuel senseless riots, he’d set the stage for mass murder, and if that experimental antidote didn’t work out —

Han punched the lift controls. _Antidote_. His stomach flipped as the lift cage picked itself up with an abrupt judder. If Gol had run all those tests, chances were that he knew the virus like every rot-infested cranny aboard his ship. Perhaps his experiments could provide the formula for a cure, or something close enough. Cold rage stabbed up under Han’s sternum. _And I’m gonna wrench it from him if I have to wring his neck_...

“Listen.” Suddenly winded, he struggled for breath. Chewbacca slanted him an apprehensive look. “I gotta go look for Gol. You get the girl, all right?”

An outburst of Wookiee protest cut him short, and Jiffra rolled her eyes. “How do you suppose to locate him? Not to mention that he’ll be surrounded by bodyguards.”

“That’s not his style, and you know it. I’ll find him.” Han met Chewie’s snarl with a straightforward look. “Can you manage?”

The snarl settled into a grudging rumble, and Jiffra muttered, “Looks like we’ll have to.”

“I’ll be in touch. If the girl’s still alive, take her right back to the Falcon.”

But his mind reeled ahead, past the confines of the lift cage that rocked to a halt, releasing Chewie and Jiffra on the lowest level of the ship’s dead sections. A musty smell curled in past the closing door. _Gol’s got to know something_.

The soft haze of adrenaline came apart and bared Han’s nerves to a grinding, heedless alarm — while the lift whirred up, and up, headed all the way to the primary bridge on the topmost level. _Bullshit_.

He slapped the controls on pure instinct, and the cage jerked to a grating standstill. Gol cherished his private twilight and could just as easily issue commands from his own quarters. Most likely, he’d be gloating in his den, wrapped up in flipped-out fantasies...

 _Gloating_. Like the man wouldn’t realize that Alliance ships had the Mantura nailed and booked for slaughter? Back at Yannis, his big gambit hadn’t played out either. Even at the height of his head trip, he couldn’t be that far gone.

 _Then where?_ Someone with a closer sense for realities would be plotting a safe escape now and head for the shuttle bays, but not Gol...

A far-flung possibility struck Han with electric, absolute certainty. He reached for the controls and the lift cranked itself up another level, then wheezed to a stop. _Here, he’s got to be here_.

Fitful dizziness lashed through him, and he threw out a hand for the bulkhead’s support. _Damnit, what—?_

Comprehension slithered in with a flying chill. No doubt that he was picking up Luke’s symptoms — the cold, sickened weakness that hollowed his insides — and another flush of rage made for a brittle balance. Damn Gol.

Han took off at a run, his steps beating out a torn rhythm — _time gods more time what if there’s not enough time_ — and the battered echoes slogged around and around in his head, gathering momentum for another dizzy spin.

He blanked his mind and narrowed every perception to the count of intersecting corridors. Ahead of him, the lucite patchlights fizzled out into unrelieved black. His chest went tight with it, clenching labored around the fusty air. _Hang in there, kid, hang in there for me_...

But all that hopeless rage lost its focus in the dark, slid along the corroded walls and recoiled, folding around him in the shape of vicious regrets. All the days and nights he’d wasted in a pointless clinch with bad old memories and second thoughts, so much time squandered when he should’ve lived each moment to the limits of raw feeling. He pressed forward through the gorge of this corridor that swallowed him into a private nightfall.

Fluorescent growth painted out a ghostly pattern on the right, throbbed in time with his rampant heartbeat. Another corner, Han told himself, and then. The lonely viewport. Right behind it, the wraith of Gol’s caravel. His stomach lurched when he sprinted into the right-hand passage.

Dead ahead, a slant of grimy lighting outlined the angle of a small compartment and a scrawny silhouette. Angry relief burst through him at the sight. Han cocked his blaster and slowed his pace.

By now, the Mantura had climbed above the last films of atmosphere, and a spray of stars glinted through the viewport. Gol was climbing into a bulky spacesuit that sagged into graceless folds around his waist, one arm tangled into the sleeve. A loose air hose swayed and bobbed at every motion. His head came up slowly, without a hint of surprise.

“Solo.” The scratchy voice carried a strange note of regret. “I wonder if you realize that you are my main mistake. Seems that I misjudged you completely, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” And his own voice didn’t sound like anything that belonged to him. Han kept moving forward, the white head in his gunsight. In the rumpled suit, Gol looked gaunt and vulnerable, like a half-fledged creature stuck in the middle of some metamorphic process.

Han trained the blaster on his forehead. “We ain’t got much time. So, here’s the deal. You tell me everything you know about antidotes for that goddamn bug, and I’m not gonna blast you.”

“You and me, we could have been allies,” Gol said as if he hadn’t heard.

“Not in this life!” Han snapped. “Now _spill_ , or say your prayers!”

“Why would I care?” The tone resembled resignation, but something glittered in Gol’s eyes, something feral and unholy and amused.

Han pushed closer, trapping him with his back against the bulkhead. “’Cause you’re too much of a gambler. Now, talk!”

“Who is it?” Gol asked, unperturbed. “Somebody’s come down with the Fallow Strain. Somebody you want to rescue at all costs, isn’t that right?”

“None of your business.”

“Tell me,” the rasping voice demanded with mechanical insistence. “Is it your Jedi friend? Is he the reason why you’re trying so hard to be the people’s hero? Why you’re pretending to yourself that you’re one of the righteous—”

“Shut up!” Han shoved his blaster barrel up under the fragile jawline. “Your fuckin’ brain’s gonna be all over this place in another second if you don’t answer my question!”

“And that should prove that you’re as far removed from a good, law-abiding citizen as you’ve ever been.”

Han felt every word form defiantly against the pressure of his blaster. “You don’t get it. I don’t care what anyone takes me for, I just want that freakin’ antidote!”

But he heard his own voice crack, an awful quiver that he couldn’t control.

“You’re frightened,” Gol said calmly. “If only I’d known before—”

“Stop it!” Han yelled. “Make your choice and make it _fast_!”

Something snapped at the sound of his shout bouncing crazily through the passage. The space around them tightened to a narrow circle revolving like the cylinder in an ancient slug gun — black, light, black — a funnel of degenerating options.

Survival without victory wasn’t good enough for Gol, no compromising, and whatever he knew would fall to oblivion with him. Han depressed the trigger slowly. _But I can still make him pay_.

A thin trickle of sweat ran down the side of his nose, every moment bought at the price of a wrenching strain.

“I can’t help you,” Gol said, every word cut to precision. “To be honest, I never spared any thought for antidotes. I merely had to ascertain that the virus wouldn’t be lethal for Corellians.”

His voice had the corrosive snap of truth to it, and it tightened Han’s finger on the trigger, rage rushing over him at the speed of a flashtide. _Then go to hell_...

“Your friend is as doomed as I am.”

A weary, unyielding look rose into Gol’s eyes. Han felt the blaster tremble in his fist, and a wash of desperation, dazzling in its intensity. _Damnit, Luke, I tried_...

With the thought’s turn in his mind, a different sensation uncoiled, and the splintered rage turned over into a ripple of live brilliance. It took the pressure out of his head and lungs, shifting his focus until he recognized the gentle pull within himself. _That’s right, Luke, I’m with you_.

He breathed sharply. His fingers had grown numb around the blaster’s grip, and he lowered it by degrees.

“Does that mean you believe me?”

The mocking tone covered something else, but Han didn’t bother to try and decode it. “You were just... wrong about me. That’s all.” He stepped back, as if stepping out of the picture, a line drawn for good. “Get outta here. Take your carcass of a ship ‘n go. Now.”

Gol grappled with the pressure valves and hook-ups of his spacesuit, the moment of startlement already past. In seconds, his paper-white face disappeared under the helmet and gloved hands fastened all the clasps while air supply kicked in with a throaty hiss.

“It’s true what I told you.” Blurred by the helmet’s visor, Gol’s voice bubbled up as if through boggy water. “I owned the Falcon a long time ago. And I gave her up. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

Han didn’t say a word. Though it might be the truth, it added up to nothing now. With ponderous, swaying steps, Gol moved towards the hatch. A Corellian legend, a ghost of his own madness.

One by one, the airlock’s seals rattled into place. Han listened to the clicks and hums that followed. Part of him steeped in the vibrant stillness, while another retrieved the order of strategic concerns. He raised his comlink. “Antram? Antram... come in, how’re you doin’?”

The reply was pitted with savage background noise. “We’re making progress. Some of ours are in charge of the bridge by now, but the troop holed up in engineering’s still fighting back.” A harsh edge in the old man’s tone implied the casualties he hadn’t mentioned.

“Tell them Gol’s gone, that might make ‘em more inclined to surrender.”

“Gone, as in _is no more_?” Antram inquired cautiously.

“Gone,” Han repeated, “and not coming back.” Through the viewport, he could see the docking clamps retreat and cables spin loose from the caravel’s hull like slowly writhing tentacles. An ashen gleam flickered briefly through one of the portholes.

“We’ve got five shuttles headed back planetside,” Antram informed him. “A small group is still in the hangar... praying, for all I know. But with the party that’s joined us, I think we’ll have the situation under control within another hour.”

“I’ll let Madine know,” Han returned absently. Nausea burned in his stomach, and his attention was wearing thin with it, curled in on Luke’s presence and the subtle rhythms that pulsed between them. _Alive_...

He opened another frequency while outside Gol’s caravel started to drift towards open space.

General Madine answered instantly, his voice rolling through the Mantura’s frazzling shields. When Han had finished his account of the near-accomplished takeover, Madine groused, “Well, Calrissian suggested that you might try something like this.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Han answered. “Antram is in charge of the operation. He’s with the Corellian council.”

Madine expelled a noisy breath like a prelude to some abrasive comment that never came. A garbled voice in the background interrupted him.

“Our scanners are picking up a vessel detaching from the Mantura,” Madine said a moment later, “although the drive doesn’t appear to be engaged. If this is a decoy, we’d better open fire before we allow her too close.”

“No, I can see her from here.” Han’s eyes tracked the ghost ship on her wavering course. “You can ignore her. There’s no one aboard. Just a floating junk heap that never got overhauled. Must’ve torn out of her moorings.”

 _She deserves to burn at the heart of a sun_ , he heard Gol’s voice, all the reverence and old grief trapped in those words — and if Gol could navigate the dead ship by the vagaries of sunwinds, maybe that’s where he was headed. Straight into the heart of Corel Prime.

Her shadow fell away from the viewport, and a sudden flash of urgency pried Han from his post. Either way, Gol was a dead man, and his business lay with the living, starting with Teragk’s daughter.

Han jogged down the corridor at the best pace he could manage while the drag on his body grew, like his own shadow pulling him back to the darker part of the ship. _Hang in there, Luke_ … Stale air burned in his chest. The lift doors were a steady gleam up ahead when his comlink pinged.

The channel opened with a roar. Chewbacca hooted a message of success that spilled over into instant demands, and Han replied, “be right there,” his eyes roving without aim across the ragged blue lichen on the bulkhead. Distracting himself from the absurd notion that this stroke of luck was some kind of portent, a guarantee that Luke would survive as well.

 

Rawboned and pale and only half-aware of her surroundings, the girl lay stretched out on the Falcon’s medical bunk, in the shine of an overhead panel. Jiffra was busy fixing the security straps around her with short, angry motions by the time Han entered.

Scratchmarks and bruises crisscrossed the girl’s bare arms. Closer up, Han could see the countless pinpricks that broke the skin, like a messy tattoo drafted in pitch darkness. And the scabs around each injury. Jiffra murmured something senseless and soothing, hands locked into fists when she swung around.

“Chewbacca located her by the _smell_ ,” she said through her teeth. “They kept her locked up like an animal, and gods know what else they did to her.”

“We’re headed straight for the clinic now.” Han found he was short of breath again, though he’d spent his anger for the time being.

“Did you find Gol?” Jiffra asked on the way to the cockpit.

“Yeah.” He didn’t add anything, and with a sidelong glance she assumed he’d personally sent Gol to eternity. It made no difference anyway.

In the cockpit, Chewbacca operated repulsors and nav controls in flustered and edgy bursts. Han dropped gratefully into his flight chair, punching the com before the intent had half-formed. Count on Leia to keep a diligent watch over Luke.

When she took the call, a spurt of pulse thickened in Han’s throat, and around it he blurted, “Anything?”

“The doctors say it’s too early to tell if their antidote is working,” Leia answered. “We’ve transferred him to the capital in the meantime, that’s all I can tell you.”

But no news was a hell of a lot better than bad news, Han assured himself. “I’ll be there in another fifteen minutes.”

The Falcon took a nosedive towards stratified clouds that ribbed Corellia’s northern hemisphere.

“I’ll have someone meet you at the main entrance to show you the way,” Leia returned before closing the channel, her voice tight with worry.

Fifteen minutes, and counting. Giddy sparks flecked Han’s vision, competing with the stars beyond the limb of the planet. He leaned back in his seat and squeezed his eyes shut.

“You okay there?” Jiffra asked close by his ear.

“Yeah...” Han pushed himself upright and tried to prove his point by flipping a grin over his shoulder. “Listen, you’ve been a great help with all this. Thanks.”

“No big deal,” she brushed it off. “I figured I owed you one.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“I heard what you did for my father.”

“Your _father_?” Han shook his head. “Don’t think I can take any credits there, I don’t even know him.”

“Yes, you do,” Jiffra objected, and when he glanced at her again, mischief flitted across her expression. “You see, my birth name is Jeziah Harad.”

“You’re Samiel Harad’s daughter?”

“That’s right.” Her smile grew wistful with reminiscence. “My mom and he went their separate ways when I was still a baby. I heard a lot about him though. Depending on her mood, Mom went back and forth between cursing and praising him to hell and back, without any middle grounds. So, I decided to check him out first, find out what he’s really like, and eventually I was going to tell him...” Jiffra waved a hand. “Except that all this interfered.”

Her revelation filtered through in bits and pieces. “Yeah, well,” Han started, “it was me who got him slammed up on—”

“I know that,” Jiffra interrupted. “And I know what Gol’s orders were.” Her hand clasped Han’s shoulder and gripped hard for a moment. “You’ve done good, Solo, no matter what you think.”

He was about to shoot off another quip when an abrupt surge took his breath. Like a burst of sunlight, memories of Luke flared along his senses, fused into something stronger than memory that charged him from the inside out. A wash of belonging that electrified him all over.

And then, burned out like a comet, that guidelight came unmoored and slipped into a compact void. Either Luke had cut the connection between them, or —

Han refused to finish that thought.

* * *

“Is something wrong, sir?”

White walls and white angles tapered infinitely, towards a vanishing point staked out in caustic neon. Han’s breath hitched on a hard knot high up in his chest. “Where—?”

“It’s just around the corner,” Leia’s aide said, in the hushed tones appropriate for catacombs. “They’re in the observation lounge.”

 _They?_ The notion skittered past without consequence. Han pulled himself to attention with an effort. “Right. I’ll find my way from here.”

He stalked down the corridor, through the spill of cauterized brightness, every step kicking up savage echoes through the hollow in his gut. The glacial floor and the row of identical doors seemed to slide past on either side of him. Numbered plaques on the doors counted down the seconds. He grappled to anchor himself in some random, innocuous detail, a last stock-taking before everything twisted out of reach. Anything to stop his mind from closing in on a single thought. Choices already made slanting towards finality like a black hole.

 _He’s all right. He’s got to be_.

When Han turned around the corner, five silhouettes were shadowed against the observation window, frozen in their silent watch. A two-dimensional tableau of stifled grief. He walked forward as if headed straight through a pane of glass. For a moment there was a very real chance that his knees might buckle at the news.

“Han...”

Leia had swiveled towards him, out of her tense poise, but his glance went past her, through the tinted window that overcast everything with shades of gray. Skating across the bed, the slope of a sheet drawn unnaturally taut over Luke’s body.

Filtered air dried up in Han’s lungs. The window beyond the bed framed a speckless stretch of morning sky slammed down on a pale horizon. He stared out at it in pure defiance, buying himself another second.

A small monitor sat below the windowsill. Red sparks tracked in horizontal lines across the lit square.

 _Heartbeat_. Han took a breath and held it, tight with warning against his ribs. _But too damn slow_...

Leia’s hand moved haltingly against his arm. “They’ve done everything to make him comfortable.”

And that was one of the euphemisms doctors used when they’d run out of options, didn’t he know it. “What happened?”

A sinuous frost laced around his ribcage, anticipating judgment.

“A short while ago, all his bodily functions dropped suddenly, as if he were slipping into a coma,” she explained and continued hurriedly, “but that’s not what it is. The E-scan shows too much cerebral activity.”

“I know,” Han murmured. Through a haze, alarm spun free into wild relief, his stomach turning to water. “Some kinda trance.”

Wherever the notion came from. But perhaps this was what Luke had tried to communicate before severing the link between them.

“It might be,” Leia replied softly. “I’ve read about trances applied by Jedi healers.”

“It certainly gives the impression of being consciously initiated,” rumbled a throaty voice from Han’s other side.

When he turned, the glimmers of diagnostic screens skidded across Admiral Ackbar’s high forehead and sparked in his large eyes. At his shoulder hovered a second Mon Cal Han didn’t recognize; likely a member of the delegation come to sign the treaty. Castor had leaned back against the wall, and General Rieekan, rigid at his post behind Leia, completed the party.

Annoyance brushed Han’s mind from a distance. _What the hell is this, some freakin’ state occasion?_ The ground still rocked slightly beneath his boots. “I’m goin’ in.”

“Well, you’re immune to the virus by now,” Leia answered, as if he’d asked for permission. “There shouldn’t be a problem.”

Whatever this little gathering was all about, he could find out later, but he couldn’t handle the thought of them gawking through the window. “Give us awhile, okay?”

His hand on the door panel, he didn’t wait for a reply. The quarantine lock cycled through a slow exchange of air streams with the sound of labored breaths.

Inside, the bank of medical equipment hummed like the blood in his veins, a senseless, lightheaded jingle. Han scooped up sights in snatches, every line unnaturally sharp. The slender coil of an IV feeder around Luke’s wrist. A crinkled corner of the sheet clasped loosely between his fingers. The bared line of Luke’s neck.

A thump of heartbeat caught in Han’s throat when he leaned over to cup his jaw, mouth brushing a slow pulse like the rhythm of dreams moving under skin. Luke’s breath tingled the side of his face and he buried it in the sheet for a moment, in the rustle of fabric traced with the scent of Luke’s skin. And he could feel it right there: a node of fierce, vibrant brightness like a primary star in some distant fold of space.

 _We’ll be all right_. A notion as close and clear as his own heartbeat brushed across his mind.

When he straightened, the space beyond the observation window was conspicuously empty. A trench of silence isolating this room.

Relief reeled from his gut to his head, wound up in rash pulsebeats that got him high and dizzy in moments. The cubicle’s stark functionality didn’t provide for visitors, so Han lowered himself to the floor beside the bed.

In theory, Luke’s condition was still critical, but that thought fell apart on the outskirts of Han’s mind. Shattered by the force of sensation. Every line and angle in the room kicked out at him, the flash of sunlight on Luke’s hair, blond strands plastered to his temple, framing the clear profile. Faint ripples in the sheet echoed Luke’s breathing, a quiet magic.

Han let his head fall back, pressure fading from every muscle as the past night unwound itself, sloping towards exhaustion. _He’ll be all right now, and I’m just gonna stay here. No matter how long. Here_.

On his left hung a scrap of exuberant sky, crystalline on the verge of hazing. Han felt himself sag, overwhelmingly tired, his pulse timed to the memory of Luke’s heartbeat redoubling his own.

Enveloped in the morning’s brightness, he could just let go. His lids closed over blue shimmers that danced and expanded infinitely. Burning blue and falling into him. He was breathing pure oxygen, deep into his lungs. And a soft surge like a ground swell opened his senses wide, wheeling him into a slow, magnetic revolution —

— until a big bird spiraled out of the sky, its sharp beak flashing golden-brown in the fierce daylight — and Han snapped forward with the shiver of light on his skin, instantly aware that Luke’s eyes were on him. He just needed another moment to locate his voice.

Luke shifted against the pillows, and a smile lit in his eyes before settling on his mouth. The jolt of it passed through Han, a tilted axis righting itself.

“’Bout time you woke up.” His voice was rough with gratitude and unexpected sleep.

“I’m—” Luke coughed, and the rasp in his throat testified the depth of unconsciousness. “I’m... okay now.”

Out of words again, Han reached out to grip his hand, the rush of unchecked emotion translating into pressure. He looked into Luke’s eyes and remembered breathing the sky.

“Doesn’t sound like you should be talkin’ though,” he managed eventually.

“How ‘bout you?” Luke insisted in a slurred murmur. “How’d it go?”

The dim cavalcade of events belonged to another reality.

“Last time I talked to him,” Han started, “Antram was taking charge of the Mantura. And we brought the girl back with us too. She’s here now, being checked out by the doctors.” He heard himself say all that, facts and efforts skidding past the sight of Luke, inconsequential. “Why’d you do this? I mean, this... trance, or whatever it was.”

“Only way... to slow it down,” Luke mouthed. “There wouldn’t’ve been enough time... for the antidote...”

A hiss from the safety doors interrupted them, and Han pushed reluctantly to his feet. Near soundless on rubber wheels, a droid skimmed in and clucked observations in binary as it surveyed the instruments. After carefully extracting a blood sample, it bustled off without a backward glance.

“Don’t suppose they’ll let me stay here much longer,” Han said. He leaned his hip against the bed and linked their hands again, every bit of distance suddenly intolerable. His fingers moved across Luke’s knuckles with a restless tenderness that had to spend itself somehow.

Warm skin, every faint thrum of pulse beating out a message of reassurance against the memory of vertigo. Like he’d balanced across a thin surface of reality that could splinter any moment.

“Luke...” A mortal weight canted aside between breaths. “Don’t do that to me _ever_ again. I don’t wanna live without you.”

Luke’s fingers closed shakily around his. “Han, I—”

He bent over fast and kissed the beginning answer off Luke’s mouth — “don’t talk” — and what would’ve been words turned into another smile that curled gently against his lips.

With a short pang of regret, Han marshaled himself to oblige reason and pulled back, tight-locking the urge to draw Luke close against him and let the full truth merge through his skin.

A flicker of half-glimpsed motion drew his eyes back to the observation window, just in time to see Leia stride up briskly. This time, only Chewbacca kept her company, looming a step behind with a dark expression of worry.

Before he could start to wonder, Leia activated the wall com. “I just talked to the doctors. The antidote...” She broke off and raised a hand to her mouth. “It’s working. You’ll be fine, Luke, you just need a rest now.” After another moment, her glance strayed to Han. “The doctors will be here soon.”

Confirmation. Indisputable fact. Settling his mind with a final click that prompted a wide, stupid grin when his eyes swerved back to Luke.

“Guess that means I’d better go before they kick me out,” Han said, lightheaded and breathless, fingertips grazing Luke’s wrist just above the IV coil. “I’ll be back as soon as they let me.”

“I hope so,” Luke muttered, in a soft, scratchy voice that betrayed his exhaustion. He sent a vague glance around the cubicle as if checking for escape routes.

“Don’t worry ‘bout anything,” Han returned. “You’ll be outta here soon.”

Relief had unlocked all his defenses, and when he left the room, a spate of questions scoured his mind without focus or aim.

Teragk’s daughter would recover in time, Leia told him, and the Mantura had been brought into a parking orbit — but there the white lounge started to sway, and a large, furry arm dropped down around his shoulders to steady him.

“I feel great, pal,” Han muttered, still grinning, “stop makin’ a fuss.”

“Seems like you need an extended rest yourself,” Leia overruled him with a crisp smile. “Come and see me when you’ve caught up on some sleep.”

* * *

Late afternoon blanched the sky when Han walked down the Falcon’s ramp. He’d lurched out of numb sleep after ten lost hours, grabbing his comlink on instinct before he quite knew why. But when he got hold of the lab chief, the man coddled him with reassuring news — except that a string of tests ruled out visits this afternoon. Luke wouldn’t be back in his room before nightfall.

Han lengthened his strides when he spotted the dusty glider parked alongside the Falcon. A straggler from the government’s armada, supplied for his convenience, so Chewie had told him. He climbed in and shot a suspect look at the clinic. Pale sunlight edged the pericrete bulwark, casting a false gloss across structures that could have housed any prison tract. The sooner Luke got out of there, the better. Han toyed with the glider’s wobbly gears and told himself he’d be back with the fall of darkness. Time to look in on Her Highness and get himself updated.

Traffic was heavy in the upper lanes, forcing him into an idle crawl. Under the mixed haze of exhaust and ozone, the sprawl of suburbs and low-rent quarters slipped by. Still overpopulated, for all he could tell, crowding up against industrial blocks that stalked the bay with extensions on steelstone pillars. Chemical sludge swirled dirty trails in the water.

A fugue of wind rushed in his ears, muting the capital’s noises to a distant rumor, and he felt strangely out of it, like a displaced refugee. No trace of the dissolution here that had cartwheeled all over the north, or the frenzy over the millennium’s turn. This was how the world looked after the big crunch had passed it by: drab and unassuming and shuffling along the old, beaten tracks.

Han steered the glider towards the inner city where polished towers jostled up above the dim line of tenement blocks. As he threaded into a lower lane, the sun glanced across a brick surface, and he suddenly recalled playing shotball behind the waterworks. Excited whoops bouncing off the brick walls, riding the air together with the pitched keening of gulls. The memory flashed with a piercing high — he’d won their informal championships three seasons running — and he grinned at it with an odd, reconciled nostalgia. Salvaged a scrap of belonging that didn’t chafe anymore.

Almost there now. Below, iron walkways segmented the canal, an ugly suture stitched between the government precinct and the glitter of cheap joints that fringed the harbor. Caustic lighting slanted from every window of the lock-slab structure that housed Leia’s office.

When he’d made it past the tripled security checks, Threepio herded him along with an avalanche of comments and queries.

“Artoo and I were terribly worried about Master Luke,” he said, fingers poised above the door handle.

Han looked at the golden features sculpted to express perpetual fluster. “Yeah. So was I.”

The door swung inward and revealed an empty desk first, then a low-slung settee on which Leia sat cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, almost like she might be meditating. But she noticed him at once and slipped hurriedly out of that posture.

When Han clasped her in a quick, tight hug, he could feel the slightest of tremors pass through her frame, a final aftershock of alarm and relief.

“You look a bit better now,” Leia said with a critical smile.

“I _feel_ better too.” Han plunked down on an old wicker chair that gave a mournful sigh. “And I’m ready for the scoop. How’s the deal with the Mon Cal coming?”

“We’ve delayed the signing of the treaty somewhat, but there won’t be any problems now.” As soon as she’d assumed her place by the desk, Leia was all business and efficiency. “The ceremony will be held in three days. I’d like you and Luke to attend, alongside some representatives of the brigades.”

“You think the Mon Cal will be comfortable with them around?” Han asked. “I got the impression they’re none too fond of hot-tempered Corellians.”

“To the contrary. They were very impressed at how the brigades defused such a severe internal conflict.”

“Yeah? Guess that makes up for the way our valiant Alliance troops fouled up at Yannis.”

“I wouldn’t call it a foul-up exactly,” Leia said. “Not that I condone Madine’s decision, but I can understand his eagerness to—”

“His _eagerness_ could’ve killed a lot of innocent people,” Han cut in on a sudden rise of anger. “You ‘n Lando were supposed to take care of the political side of things.”

“Yes!” Her hand slapped down flat on the desk. “And who do you think persuaded Command to stay out of the situation and let an inofficial organization like the brigades handle it? But the future of the New Republic was on the line—”

“And that would’ve been worth sacrificing all these people?” Han spread his hands wide and poured on the sarcasm. “Looks like Madine thought we could do without a few hundred Corellian headcases, huh?”

“Madine is Corellian himself,” Leia retorted. “And yes, he acted rashly. He saw a fight and couldn’t wait for it to start. Sometimes I’m almost convinced that it’s an innate hormonal problem.”

That unexpected barb brought Han’s temper up short, and he chuckled in spite of himself.

Leia regarded him with wary forbearance. “So, will you come to the ceremony?”

“Sure I’ll come. Don’t know what that’s supposed to achieve, but if you think it helps.” He threw a distracted glance out of the window. Above the muddy orange layer of sundown swam ragged clouds, predicting the approach of fall rains. “What’s gonna happen with the Mantura now?” he asked. “She’s still up there, right?”

“At present, that’s a matter of debate,” Leia answered thoughtfully.

“Can’t see why—” Han interrupted himself with a short wave. “No, don’t tell me. Command wants her for the Alliance fleet, is that it? Never mind that Madine would’ve blasted her to shrapnel.”

“I know.” A note of fatigue edged into Leia’s voice.

“Antram’s people took her. And the Skylars.”

“I know,” Leia repeated. “Then again, what would they use her for?”

“Whatever.” Han pulled up his shoulders. “But that’s for them to decide, don’t you think? She’s theirs by right.”

Like the grind of relentless gears somewhere in the basement, he could track the push and pull of political wrangles: ten minutes spent within range, and he’d already had enough of it.

“There’s something else,” Leia said haltingly. “You told me about Luke’s disclosure at Yannis...”

“What about it?”

“I wish he’d consulted me before.”

“He didn’t _know_ it would come up,” Han retorted, the memory inserting itself with the fevered sway of torchlights.

“But it’s out now.” Leia’s right hand curled into a fist, and she cupped her left over it, rubbing at the knuckles. “And the news is going to spread. We’ll have to inform our allies and explain to them why we kept it a secret for so long.”

“That wasn’t Luke’s idea,” Han put in. Entrenched in her own reasoning, Leia acknowledged him with a distracted dip of the head.

“Perhaps he could make a public statement at the ceremony,” she continued. “And I suppose we should organize some diplomatic visits on our major memberworlds to allay their—”

“Goddamnit, listen to you!” Han burst out, launching from his chair that rocked back with a sharp creak. “He’s not even out of hospital yet, and you’re already makin’ plans for him. Don’t you think he’s done enough?”

“What’s enough?” Leia fixed him with a sober look. “Our personal needs are a luxury we can’t always afford.”

He’d heard that rationale before, seen her live by it too. “Yeah, well, I’m gettin’ tired of seeing Luke pushed into the spotlight and managed to suit some higher political goal.”

“And how would you know?” she asked snappishly. “You weren’t even around for the past seven months!”

“Why, I’ve heard more than enough.” Han jabbed a finger at her. “What about you, Leia? Vader was your father too, and you’ve been tryin’ it out with the Force, but you think you can just keep goin’ like nothing’s changed. You take whatever you can use, and the rest you just blot out of sight. Convenient.”

“And you don’t?” she asked back sharply.

“Never said I was any better.” Han straightened, as if that could help refocusing his argument. “I just don’t like the way you keep pushing Luke’s buttons, ‘cause you know he’s gonna feel responsible. You’ve always had a hold over him, and you know it. Time for him to do what he wants. So let him, for crap’s sake!”

“I’m only trying to protect him!” He’d finally gotten under her skin, and Leia came to her feet, both hands slamming down on the desk. “He’s in a very vulnerable position, and he’s going to need all the support he can get. Do you know on how many worlds he’ll be perceived as a threat, once word gets around? And what about individuals who’ll try to get their hands on Vader’s son to make him suffer for his father’s crimes? They’re going to hunt him, Han. Are _you_ going to protect him from all that?”

“You bet I will!”

They were still glaring at each other when the door opened. Threepio poked his head in and stared around for a long moment. “Mistress Leia, might I remind you that Lord Duscath is expecting you and Master Calrissian for dinner?”

“They can wait a little while longer.” Leia inhaled harshly while the door closed again. Her fingers skated up into her hair and picked at a braid with small, nervous motions.

“I’m sorry,” Han offered after another pause. “I can see why it frightens you.” Her eyes flew back to him with protest that never came. “And I can see Luke needs political protection... but he also needs a life of his own.”

Leia’s expression grew guarded again as she studied him.

“With you,” she suggested finally, the quizzical inflection barely audible.

“That’s what I’m hopin’.” Awkward, and bizarre, to say this here, to Leia of all people. The weight of the past thickened between them, dragging in a long, convoluted trail of questions. Han met her eyes and realized he was waiting for her to start unraveling the knots, as usual.

“How long have you been lovers?” Leia asked. “Since Luke went to find you on... Ylab, wasn’t it?” She took in his short nod and answered the question he wouldn’t have asked. “I’m not blind, Han. Anyone would have noticed this morning, at the clinic, but I could see it when we met by the lake... the way you were holding him.” She turned aside, rooting her glance to a bulky old filing cabinet. “And maybe earlier than that. Maybe... on Coruscant.”

A crucial intersection that fractured the past and would riddle it with afterthoughts like pitfalls, if he didn’t interfere.

“Look, Leia, it’s not that I—”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” she interrupted, a defensive smile catching in the corner of her mouth. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. But when you left, Luke was the reason, wasn’t he?” Her expression blocked every possible answer with a swift, unaccountable change. “He loves you.”

A note of cautioning to it, and subdued surprise. Han bent his head and checked his own reaction with a quick breath. “I won’t let him down, Leia.”

Not again.

 

Later, when he entered the darkened cubicle, a single monitor kept watch over Luke’s sleep. Someone had wedged a chair in between the bed and the wall, and Han lowered himself quietly.

The monitor cast its smooth half-light across Luke’s frame, a wanton image that swam in and out of the dimness as Han’s eyes adjusted. Spidery beams glistened silver across the planes and angles of Luke’s face, the thin lines of strain around his mouth, until shadowplay washed them aside.

 _You ‘n me, kid_ , Han thought, his breath adopting the rhythm of the light, _that’s all it takes_.

* * * * *

In the end, the doctors took two more days to ascertain Luke’s complete recovery. When precocious instruments and medical expertise finally reached concurrence, they agreed to release him in the morning. But when Han arrived, the cubicle was empty, the mattress stripped bare of sheets, and a droid gestured him along to a different wing of the clinic.

Han stalked his short temper down the corridor that traversed Intensive Care. More tests? What if the lab crew had jumped the chance to prod and prick their favorite research subject some more? In that case, he’d give them an earful, grouchy as he’d grown from all the waiting. He’d stretched repairs of the Falcon with extra diligence, and he’d filled the remaining time talking a couple things over with Chewie and Castor. He’d even sat through a lengthy meeting with General Rieekan, haggling amiably over various arrangements and concessions. But so long as Luke was still cooped up in here, he felt stuck between the murk of yesterday and a flock of hazy tomorrows.

Han turned a sharp right. Where the number on the door matched the directions he’d been given, an Alliance uniform hailed in subdued green-gray.

“You can go in, sir,” the guard said unasked.

“Why, thank you,” Han grumbled.

Inside the room, a conversation faltered. A white drift of cushions surrounded Teragk’s daughter, Luke on one side of her bed and her father on the other, perched on a stool like the defendant on parole that he was. The girl’s eyes flickered over to Han with nervous alertness — Taleen, he pulled up her name — then skated back to Luke.

“Thank you for visiting me.” A taut pressure lingered in her voice, and a rawness of vocal cords.

 _Humming against the dark_ , Han thought, restricting himself to his post by the door. _All that time_.

“I’ll come and see you again if you like.” Luke sat forward and rested his hand on the mattress beside her, not touching.

After a moment, Taleen’s fingers moved hesitantly, clasped his hand and scooted away again. Clenched into a sharp white knot of determination. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Han said, moments too late. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Captain Solo.” Teragk pulled to his feet at that, a new load of gratitude shouldered awkwardly. “I owe you more than I can ever—”

“No, you don’t.” Han made an effort to moderate his brusque tone. “If you want to say thanks, talk to Chewbacca and Jiffra Kemál. I just provided the transport.”

“You’re too generous.”

The look Teragk gave him veered from resignation to grudging respect and back into suspicion, but for Taleen’s sake, Han clamped his mouth shut.

The girl had been swallowed whole and spit out by nightmare, and by that kinship Luke recognized, he’d come to try and comfort her. Survivors balancing each other against the pull of the past.

When Luke joined him by the door, Han raised a hand and let it brush his arm. A sudden need for touch snapped through him, spiking off the scale and into swift impatience the moment their eyes met.

The guard outside fell a hurried step backward as they left the room, into a pose of parade-ground attention. Too rigid for overblown reverence. Han scanned him surreptitiously in passing.

One of the strapping junior officers, by the look of him. Tanned, unmarked features drawn into an expression of strangled curiosity that tried not to target Luke — and failed miserably. So rumor had finally wormed its way into the capital, the waltz through one turbulence after the next starting right here. And of course Luke noticed.

Two steps down the corridor, he swung through a half-turn and met the furtive glance. “Is there something you want to ask me?”

The young man swallowed around words that came slowly. “Is it true...?”

“Yes.” Luke had dropped back behind a barrier of steeled quiet, waiting for reaction, for some half-baked verdict he could counter. But the guard just stared — at him first, then embarrassed at the shiny floor — until Han broke the silence with a quick step across.

“Look, why don’t you ask me who _my_ father was?” he flared in the guard’s face. “You know who _I_ am, right?”

“I — yes, Captain Solo.” The young man worked military discipline into his tone and for good measure added, “Sir.”

“See, I couldn’t tell you, ‘cause I never even met my old man,” Han went on. “Maybe he’s dead, maybe he’s still alive, but I spent my whole life without him — and the same goes for Luke. They didn’t make us who we are. Get it?” He let that percolate another moment, and supposed he’d have to make do with an uncertain flicker in the young man’s gaze. “So get over it.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught the start of a smile on Luke’s mouth. A brief twitch of relief and amusement. Their footsteps fell in tandem, sparking through muted electronic chatter, and Han had to check his pace. The corridor’s snowy length stretched ahead like a racetrack.

“It isn’t quite so easy,” Luke said when they reached the lobby.

“Why not? ‘Cause you’ve got the Force from him — from Vader?” Han blinked against the twirl of light revolving through crystalplex doors, and for a moment they were isolated together in a wedge of glass and sunlight. Luke’s body warmth caught up against him in the tight space.

“How do you know that anyway?” he asked, stepping outside, into the crisp morning air. “How d’you know you didn’t get it from your mother’s side of the family?” But there he was trying to chart Luke’s home terrain, and he waved the useless question aside. “It’s just that I don’t think it makes any difference. So maybe I got the knack for flying from my old man, but it wasn’t him who made me realize what I wanted to do with it, or who taught me how to use it.”

He drew breath to hammer out the simile, but Luke’s smile had returned, coming free and fast out in the open. “Yes, I see your point.”

“Good.” Han exhaled consciously, a small knot of gladness bursting inside him — just to see Luke’s expression warm into untroubled contentment, shimmers of the sun reflected on his face. 

Bright daylight wrapped gently around him, tousled him with a breeze and swept a glitter of pure energy into his eyes. With a private nudge to reason, Han forced himself back into motion.

 _I could just look at you and look at you_...

“What’s going to happen to Teragk?” Luke asked, against the wind that scythed across the landing field outside the clinic complex. “Are they going to court-martial him for treason?”

Han shook his head. “Rieekan says a trial of any kind’s gonna do more harm than good. They’ll let him off the hook with a dishonorable discharge, a rehab program and no pensions. I wasn’t too sure about that, but now...” He darted a glance back at the clinic. “Suppose his daughter needs him.”

“She does.” Luke slowed as they approached the Falcon, appreciating her with a long glance. “So where were you when Chewie and Jiffra found Taleen?”

“Off to blast Gol for breeding that damn virus,” Han said bluntly, though it didn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice.

“But you didn’t.”

“How’d you—?” He stopped at the foot of the Falcon’s ramp and changed that to, “You could feel it?” Though it was hardly a question anymore, the close feel of Luke’s presence inside him played along every nerve, halfway between memory and anticipation. “Yeah, I let him go.”

But when he reviewed that moment now, more than a gutted old caravel had sailed off into neverland, and what he’d let go resembled final trappings of a life rearranged in fits and starts.

In the rush of wind around them, he felt a supple movement, the flow of a clear, chosen purpose. The day’s brightness had sharpened with the crystal quality of early fall, edging Luke’s frame — lithe and self-contained in this burnished light — like a beautiful memory. Until the strange quiet snapped, and Luke’s arms wrapped hard around him. Han gripped back with both hands, urging the length of Luke’s body against him to drive out the waiting.

They stilled in that tightlock for long moments, sunlight flitting through Han’s closed lids while wind-blown strands slid against his mouth, and Luke’s hands made a slow, possessive path up his spine.

“Han...” The warmth of a murmur against his neck, rich with promise. A light flush glowed across Luke’s cheekbones when he finally drew back and tugged at the high collar of his tunic. “I think I’d better get changed.”

As part of his brain switched back on, Han noticed the formal array Luke had worn at Yannis, impeccable and stifling. “Should’ve thought of that... Threepio brought a whole stack of fresh clothes over from your place.”

But then the prospect of peeling Luke out of his clothes took over, raised phantom sensations on his own skin, and he couldn’t gain the privacy of his cabin fast enough.

Inside, he didn’t bother to throttle the impulse — not when Luke turned to him with that look in his eyes — and his arms caught tight around the lean back. “I’ve missed you.” Fingers sliding through Luke’s hair, down his neck, across the warm skin under Luke’s collar. “Hell, I’ve missed you bad...”

Against his shoulder stirred a wordless sound that echoed the feeling. And his hands were restless, roaming through a detailed survey of muscles stretching the silky tunic, the strong pulsebeats that timed a resurgence of blind relief. Han cupped a hand around Luke’s jaw and brought their mouths together with hungry pressure, like he needed to breathe Luke’s breath to know for certain that Luke was whole and alive. A heady comprehension coursed through him that took the last troubling snags out of his reaction.

He broke the kiss only to undo the tunic’s complicated fasteners and slide the fabric off Luke’s shoulders.

“You gave me a real fright there,” he murmured, most his attention focused on the warm glide of skin under his hands, appreciating the slant of muscles over Luke’s abdomen. “When you suddenly... shut everything down. One moment I could feel you, and the next...”

The tunic slipped to the floor in a ruffle and Luke reached back for him. “I’m sorry. I realized I was running out of time.” He paused, as if dragging his mind back to his own reasoning. “All I could do was slow down every body function and hope that the virus would slow down with it.”

The implications caught hold of Han’s mind with a frigid jolt. “You mean, you didn’t know?”

“I’d never tried this kind of thing before.”

“Damnit, Luke, you’re—” _Crazy? Irresponsible? Impossible?_ Han shook off the crowding shadows of potential disaster. “So how’d you figure it wouldn’t keep the antidote from kicking in?”

“It’s an artificial agent, and that means it works at its own speed.” Luke’s fingers traveled up his shirt front, insinuating themselves between cloth and skin. “But mostly... you kept me alive, Han.”

His pulse quickened to the touch, a magnetic pull spreading deep into the pit of his stomach.

“Still was the damnedest...” From afar, a hollow chill stole up and threatened to claim him whole if he let the memory slink any closer. Han turned it aside with a resolute shift of gears. “Well, ‘s good to know I could help, anyway.”

And here he was, discussing mystical energy fields and telepathic links like mere com technology, no longer unnerved though admittedly flustered.

“More than that.” Luke’s quick reply brushed his lips, and Han abandoned thought to the taste of him, explored the warm mouth with thorough attention to every nuance. The snarl of wasted days unlaced into pleasure that wound through him in smooth, sinuous strands.

When he nudged Luke over to the bunk, there was no hesitation, only the rush of wanting that landed them on the mattress in a thoughtless, joyful tangle. Luke’s hands were under his shirt, and Han’s attention leapt back and forth from that roving caress to the vibrancy under his palms. Skimming the tension in every muscle while breathless impatience pressed their bodies together and their mouths met over short gasps. Through restraining cloth, welcome hardness nudged Han’s thigh, and it sent a small, delicious pang into his groin.

He closed his eyes, determined to reacquaint himself with every inch of skin, the raised pattern of Luke’s breathing, but through familiar sensations merged something new, flashing hard and bright like sheet lightning on the horizon.

A consuming tension crawled up through his body as he pulled Luke across him, one hand framing the intense cast of his face. Always an edge of discovery to this — as he rocked up against Luke and clamped his thighs tight around Luke’s hips, drawing him in — the clandestine core of a memory baring itself with the slow flush heating his skin.

...the sway of night outside the tent and firepoints piercing olive canvas when a sudden fever overran his mind...

...and part of the spell rose up through him, out of a buried need — his defenses not just down, but gone.

Gone with the battering of loss, resolved in his gut response to everything Luke offered him. A troubled ache turned loose when he couldn’t bear the distance between them any longer.

Hot tingles shot up the length of Han’s spine and plunged back into his groin, each time Luke thrust against him with a soft urgency. Gentle demands rolled in drifts through his senses, fueled the need to give himself over, until all of him strained for a deeper connection. For an answer to the risk Luke took when he opened himself like this, vulnerable and fervent in the choice that he’d made.

But he could answer it now, with a longing that coiled up hard in his chest and knew just one direction — and he gasped into Luke’s mouth when a distant sound abruptly froze him.

Diluted like echoes out of a curving tunnel, he heard Castor’s voice call a quizzical “Hey there!” through the Falcon’s corridor.

A noise of pure frustration caught in Han’s throat and formed a soft curse as he sagged against the mattress. Still wrapped around each other, they listened into silence — until another call scoured the Falcon.

“Should’ve locked the damn hatch,” Han managed.

“Yeah, we should have.” Luke levered off him with a winded chuckle, regret in his eyes, and very definite intentions that would have to keep until later.

“Guess you’d better put something on then.” Han trailed a finger down the center of Luke’s bare chest and made an effort to level out his breathing, to seal this unbracing discovery inside him for a little while longer.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk, almost wincing at the sudden rub of unyielding cloth against his erection.

When he paced himself down the corridor, he used the downtime to force thoughts of icy showers into his mind, until the pressure in his groin lessened gradually.

“Han?” Castor’s voice placed him in the passenger lounge.

When Han reached the doorway, he saw that Jiffra had tagged along, dressed in camouflage gear, her long hair wrestled up into a sensible bun.

“Luke’s just getting changed,” he said witlessly, while their eyes wandered over his own unbuttoned shirt that hung open down to the belt. Yeah, and he could hear their thoughts loud and clear, like a first-class telepath. _What, and you were giving him a demonstration?_

Han leaned back against the padded doorway, where the sober lighting couldn’t expose him in greater detail to those saucy looks. “Can I get you something?”

Jiffra shook her head. “Don’t bother. We won’t keep you long.”

“Yes,” Castor joined, “Chewie tells me you’ll be off soon.” His glance passed over Han’s shoulder. “Hey, Luke.”

Dressed in a fresh shirt, his hair still ruffled and his color high, Luke returned a smile for the greeting. _Irresistible_ , Han thought, slipping back into that dazed state of incredulous happiness until Castor’s voice snatched him from it.

“We thought we’d drop in to say goodbye. We might not be around by the time you get back.”

Han frowned. “What’s the rush? Where’re you headed?”

“Parsis,” Jiffra answered. “Time to clear up a little misunderstanding and introduce myself properly to my cranky old man. Castor offered to lend a hand.”

“Yeah, and high time for me to get back into practice. Breaking old Harad out of that slammer is a challenge I can’t resist.” Castor raised a hand and wriggled his fingers for emphasis. “Okay if I take the freighter for the duration, cap? Neither of us got a kettle for this kinda business.”

“Well, you got one now.” Han held up a hand against predictable objections. “And that means, _keep her_.”

Rueful delight and reluctance mixed in Castor’s eyes, at this parting of the ways that came unexpected like their first encounter, one more juncture of chance and design.

“Sure you’re up to this, the two of you?” Han asked. “I’m thinkin’ since it’s me who got Harad booked in the first place, I should—”

“Not if you’re fond of the way your nose looks now,” Jiffra stopped him. “We’ll be fine. And I’ll make sure to keep Harad out of your path ‘til he’s cooled off some.”

Han noted the quick glance that passed between them, a conspiratorial flash of amusement and something else that vanished quick as fancy. “All right. Yell if you need anything.”

“Don’t you worry.” Castor winked at him. “We’ll be around.”

After a prolonged round of handshakes and shoulder-claps, Castor and Jiffra strolled down the ramp like they were setting out for a joyride. Han watched the way they fell into step on the dusty tarmac and cocked his head. “What d’you think, the two of them—?

“You never know.” Luke leaned back against the open hatch with folded arms. “So... we’ll be off soon,” he said. “Where to?”

“I thought we’d go to Yannis. You might want to check up on the situation out there.” The sudden alertness in Luke’s expression told him he’d got that figured right. “And besides,” Han added, “it’s a nice spot to relax. We can be back in time for the ceremony tomorrow night.”

“That sounds good.” Luke raked him with a look that sabotaged rational thinking. “I caught one of the newscasts in the clinic. They said that only the Skylars’ core groups remain at Yannis, but that still means several thousand.”

“Yeah.” Han’s glance yielded to the seduction of bare skin framed by the slate-blue fabric of Luke’s shirt. “And the brigades are keeping an eye on them. I hear that Peg’s still around too.”

From the direction of the starboard cargo hold, he heard Chewie rumble and hum to himself, which canceled every plan of locking the hatch for some undisturbed privacy.

“Guess that means we’re all set to go.” He caught Luke by surprise when he grabbed him and kissed him deeply — and that sure didn’t ease his state of want, but there was some release in it all the same when Luke clung to him with mute, equal fervor.

“...and that’s a promise,” Han murmured against his mouth.

* * * * *

Under a yellow haze, long strips of trampled soil flamed in dull copper between the rocks. Scattered ashes and trash-heaps marked the location of former camps, a map of abandoned hopes swerving by as the Falcon swung to settle on a wedge-shaped plateau. Within moments, the hatch reeled aside. Surrounded by the harsh sound of breakers clashing into rock, Luke breathed in deep. The bite of salt in his throat and the dry fevered taste of night returned in snatches.

“Didn’t think we’d manage to sneak up unnoticed,” Han said at his shoulder. One hand settled over the small of Luke’s back, flashing a beacon of pure warmth through him.

From the narrow end of the plateau, Peg wandered up in tan coveralls that carried the blended stains of her restoration work.

“Good to see you’re back on your feet,” she called across.

Closer up, her expression showed nothing of wariness or curiosity, and Luke felt the set of his shoulders ease. “Good to see you too,” he said when they met at the foot of the ramp. “How have you been?”

“Not bad... though I wouldn’t mind heading back to my workshop sometime soon.” Peg sent a pointed glance around. “Place looks changed now, doesn’t it? The majority left the morning after. Not too many of them were disappointed that the world hadn’t come to an end after all. Doesn’t mean there’ll be no further troubles, of course.”

“Yeah, the riots must’ve added a couple new grudges to the old batch,” Han put in.

“I daresay. And that means a whole lot of work for us over the next few months.” Peg pulled up her shoulders against a huff of wind coming over the cliffs. “I think it calls for some serious reconsideration among the brigade leaders too.”

Off to the right, Luke could see the bay where they’d landed the Falcon four nights ago. An outline of jutting crags and bent trees bracing the tide’s swell. “What makes you think so?”

“We’ve grown a bit too complacent,” she said. “After all those years of Imperial occupation, we were too used to the old ‘us against them’ pattern. Never expected this kind of heat from our own people.”

Between the plateau and the cliffs, a path wound down the crevice, choked with sand and debris. From there, Peg steered them upslope again, to a humped ridge overlooking a dale sprinkled with tents and canvas shelters. “You’re here to talk with the Skylars, aren’t you?” She swept a hand out to the camp. “Some of the folks here were aboard Gol’s ship, but that hasn’t changed their beliefs.”

“No. Of course not.” Solid conviction had shaped his reply before Luke could question it. “I’d like to know more about them.”

A concert of low voices thrummed in the dale, fragments of song and earnest lecturing, and the pitched calls of children playing under the trees. But while the voices never faltered, Luke felt the looks that flew after him and whipped past in a hurry before he could counter them. _Vader’s son_.

Discomfort folded around his senses, stewing with demands that charged him. At a short distance from the circle of tents, some brigadeers crouched around a painted game board. Their glances scurried across with a sullen inflection of surprise and embarrassment.

 _Who do you see?_ Months ago, these looks would have trapped him between mirrors, infinite reflections bearing his likeness, and not one among them that he recognized. But now...

The present was defined by different forces, the subtle pull on his senses swirling around a new center of gravity. _So much more than what you see_ , Luke thought. Beside him, Han had inched a little closer, a protective bristle in his body language. But underneath the moment’s vigilance, they were connected by a sheer joy of living. Han’s sidelong glance crawled over his skin like a slender heatray and focused him anew.

“Over there.” Peg gestured ahead, at a group of several dozen Skylars seated in a loose circle on stones and patchy razor grass.

With the curl of smoke from a campfire, a male voice rose in the cadence of formal recital, accompanied by intermittent mutters from his audience.

When Luke walked closer, their absorption brimmed over his senses, a slow surf of images that beset him, one layer after the next. Variants of the prophecies, the nightsky growing febrile above the falcon’s flight, a landscape transformed in the radiance of legend. As if he’d entered waking dreams of the future that filled the bowl of this valley like clear water, a mirror of minds.

The man interrupted his account and studied him with hooded eyes. Thin black strands framed his angular features, and Luke thought he recognized the Skylar preacher from the newsreel about the groundquake, weeks ago, but he couldn’t be sure.

“So, the Jedi has returned.” Every word articulated with emphatic exactness, and traced with sarcasm. “Perhaps you wonder what we’re still waiting for?”

“Change?” Luke offered. It took an effort to summon his concentration away from the lucid flood, the double vision that overlaid the camp and the hazy shades of noon.

Silence expanded with a slow turn from suspicion and hostility into cautious interest.

“Sit with us,” an elderly woman invited, glancing from him to Han and Peg.

They squatted on a grassy bump, half within and half outside their circle, in the windless warmth clogging the dale.

“It’s not your fault,” the woman said with a tentative smile. “You’re an offworlder, and you can’t understand.”

“My beliefs may be different, but I do know the feeling,” Luke started awkwardly. “The need for change. The knowledge that there’s more to life, and a greater purpose than to make a living for yourself.”

The preacher slanted him a dubious look, his features hard and unrevealing. “Did you see the falcon, Jedi? And the city in the sky?”

“Yes, I saw them.” Like dreamy shadows, those images hovered around the group, in the stagnant midday air, and something within him moved slowly towards comprehension.

“Me too,” Han said in the gruff tone meant to cover up unease.

The preacher’s eyebrows arched with an unsuspected glimmer of humor. “Then perhaps there’s hope for the unbelievers yet.”

“What I don’t understand,” Han added, “is why you’ll sit around waitin’ for deliverance—” He broke off abruptly, struggling for sobriety. “See, I’ve spent half my life traveling, so I’m pretty much an offworlder myself.” One hand came up to gesture expressively, “and I happen to think that you gotta _do_ something to improve your situation.”

“Yes, we’ve heard that before,” muttered a sullen young voice.

“The clouds that eclipsed the light in the sky were a clear sign,” the preacher said. “We haven’t earned it yet to live in the promised city. And yes, that means we shall have to work to improve ourselves.”

“Fighting against your own people isn’t going to achieve that,” Peg returned baldly. “If this is about liberating Corellia, there’s no need for violence anymore. We’re free of Imperial control now, and we can choose a different political course.”

“I suppose,” a younger woman said earnestly, “it’s more about liberating ourselves.”

The preacher’s fingers went to his thinning beard and played with a black strand. “Yes. Some of us no longer recognize the world of our ancestors. Our oceans are polluted, the countryside spoiled by industries that divest and destroy and give nothing back to the land we love. Our clans have grown dissolute and scattered, and no longer remember our traditions. Honesty and honor were bartered away long before the Empire arrived. Our people’s minds have been enslaved by profit and ruthless exploitation!” His tone had grown sharp, and he stopped himself with a slicing motion. “That is why we long for a different world. It’s too late to revert the process that has turned Corellia into such a desolate place. This is no longer our home, and yet we are forced to live in this exile.”

“You could start over somewhere else,” Luke suggested, “there are other worlds out there, uninhabited planets...”

“Another world,” someone echoed, “a place where we could live in accordance with tradition...”

A soft surge washed around Luke, and for a moment he was part of it, drawn into the hopeless desire for clear-cut order and firm boundaries. Then it brushed past, ebbed off the restless electricity that defined Han’s presence, threads of expectation interlacing between them.

“We don’t have the means to leave,” the preacher said caustically, “unless the government is willing to pay for our emigration, and I doubt that very much, since there’s no profit in it.”

“You could take the Mantura,” Han proposed in the most casual tone. “The ship up there.” He gestured at the sky with a lopsided grin. “She’s no beauty, and you’d have to learn how to operate a monster like that, but if you want her, she’s all yours.”

Just as startled as Peg and the Skylars, Luke met his look of mock-innocence. A glint of smug satisfaction surfaced in the hazel eyes.

“That sounds fair to me,” a resonant voice called from the back. “We were lured to that ship, and we helped seizing her. She should be ours.”

“Perhaps this is a _sign_ ,” the sullen young man speculated, though he still glowered at Han. “We’re meant to be wanderers.”

“Yes, yes.” The preacher ruffled his beard again. “We came out here for enlightenment and to witness the end of our troubles. Perhaps we’re meant to travel further before the end does indeed come. It’s not too late to change our lives.”

Luke returned his ponderous glance without reservations. “How would you want to live?”

 

Several hours had swirled by in the flow of explanations, laced with songs and story-telling, when they finally climbed to their feet. Peg rolled her stiff shoulders and excused herself with an exasperated glance at the high heavens.

“Well... now you’ve heard it all,” Han said under his breath. He gestured Luke along to the bluffs that fringed the dale. “Not exactly what you’d expected, huh?”

“I guess I’d thought they’d be more like the B’omarr monks on Tatooine,” Luke admitted. “They lead ascetic lives and focus exclusively on spiritual matters...”

“...instead of worrying about preserving traditional distillery techniques and raising large, raucous families in the proper environment,” Han filled in the rest. “But, you know, it makes me feel better that they’re not about to turn their backs on enjoying life. They’re Corellian after all.”

Luke climbed the scraggy rise after him. “And their visionary power is impressive.” He paused at the top and glanced back into the south where the alignment had burned. “I think that’s what drew me all this time.”

“Are you saying...” Han’s brows knitted in abrupt speculation, “that it’s the Force at work here?”

“No. Or maybe it is, on a different level.” The sea thundered around him, imbued the air with glitters of salt and spray, vast and ancient like the subliminal tides of energy. “I’ve wondered why I could sense the quake,” Luke went on, “why those legends and images touched me. It’s the power of their minds, the way they share a vision of the future.”

“Unlike the Alliance,” Han supplied in a dry tone of irony.

“Maybe we’ll see some progress now, if even the Mon Cal and the Corellians can get along.”

“Yeah. Sure hope so.” Old doubt edged Han’s voice, and Luke couldn’t honestly argue with it.

They wandered along the ragged coastline, past smaller camps sprouting between the cliffs and thickets of shaggy trees. Curiosity swarmed around them and after them in lazy droves. Luke quickened his pace at the flurry of looks that grew guarded when they trailed from him to Han.

“I know,” Han said quietly. “Don’t like being stared at myself.”

Luke shifted his shoulders. “I should’ve known, but... I didn’t realize it would be so hard to accept. Until now, I never felt singled out on Corellia.”

“Maybe you’re not reading all the looks you get right. Nobody said anything about Vader.” Han flicked up a hand as if to disperse the notion. “Yeah, so they know who you are, but they remember you from coming here and talking to them. Besides, I can promise you one thing, no one out here’s gonna blame you for acknowledging your father.”

“But he played such a prominent role when the Empire crushed the resistance movement in this area,” Luke objected.

“They’re not gonna blame _you_ though,” Han returned with stubborn emphasis. Wind rumpled his shirt, and he tossed his hair back from his forehead. “I mean — families, you’re stuck with ‘em, no matter how you end up hating each other, you stick with your people, and it’s part of who you are. ’Round here, people can appreciate why you went after Vader, no matter what he’d done.” A slow, rueful grin stole up. “Look at me, I’m practically an orphan without any living kin, and that’s about the worst thing that can happen to a Corellian.”

Pebbles chattered idly in the wake of their steps as they climbed down another crevice. Caught between slanted cliffs, a strip of deep blue ocean tumbled restlessly through the narrow bay. Han stopped on a rocky shelf above the water, eyes locked to the troubled gray distance.

“I remember... riding along on Ma’s barge. The way she’d shout ‘n laugh at the winds. She loved the ocean.” He slung an arm around Luke’s shoulders, drawing him close against his side. “I used to lie on the deck watching the stars. She said I could pick one for myself...”

Far out in the east, dusk gathered around a bank of blue clouds. Memories of Tatooine’s sunsets coasted across Luke’s mind, the velvet shading into night that mesmerized him with its depth of scattered fires. Han’s fingers drew a scintillant line up his ribcage. “And you did?”

“Sure. Got him right here.” Closer than the gusting wind, Han’s breath teased the side of his face, coupled with a soft snort. “See, being with you’s turned me all sentimental.”

When Luke turned his head, Han captured his mouth and silenced a response that was far from shaping words. Dazzled and racing through him like a jangle of stars in his bloodstream, the tide’s rush merging with his pulse.

Somewhere below, a boom of waves rolled through hollows in the rock, and its tremors kept resonating through the pit of his stomach when Han let go.

“’S been a long road home.” A dark glance swept from Luke’s mouth to his eyes with a secretive glitter. “I sure came back here by the roundabout route. To this.”

At a loss what to say, Luke raised a hand to Han’s jaw and drew his lips back against his own. Clear as glass, the moment enclosed them in wind-scattered spray and the sharp echoes of breakers snapping off the rock. His own skin stretched tight, absorbing every sensation.

“...and it feels _good_.” Han tilted his head, brushing his mouth against Luke’s palm. “Much better than I would’ve thought.”

As if that statement dictated motion, his fingers closed firmly around Luke’s wrist and tugged him towards the other side of the crevice.

“What about us?” Luke asked, when they’d scrambled up the steep incline. Before them, a jumble of boulders fell away towards a wooded valley, green billows that smoldered in the late afternoon glow. “What do you think your family’d say if they knew?”

“Oh, they’d be surprised... though knowing me, nothing much could shock ‘em.” A flash of wicked delight crossed Han’s face, as if he’d just envisioned the scene, and himself back in the role of a surly teenager. “But that’s just ‘cause they never thought much of my taste. I think grandad would’ve liked you. A lot.”

“But if having a family’s that important, doesn’t that mean—”

“That they’d object to anyone choosing a partner of the same sex?” Han shook his head. “Why should they?”

“The Sullustians object to it, I know that much.” Although, Luke reflected with a small grin, the Sullustians objected to anything that veered off their narrow tracks of law and custom.

“Yeah, but they’re all about bloodlines, heritage and dynasties and whatnot. They practically breed heirs.” Han snorted eloquently. “Corellians just spread out in big messy families, and getting pregnant doesn’t mean you need to get married, and raising kids is done in a big group anyway. I was... kind of an exception.”

Through the trees peeked a swath of painted canvas, and Luke caught a whiff of woodsmoke cradling spicy scents. “And there’s no one left of your family at all?”

“Well, Ma had two sisters, but they both moved off-planet before I was born. I’ve got no idea where they went.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

Han shrugged. “Sometimes. But I wouldn’t know how to locate them.”

“Start out with the name,” Luke suggested.

“Like, _Solo_? That’s not how it works.” Han swept the branches of a stooped baymint tree out of their path. “Ma picked that name for me, ‘cause I was her only, and she had no intentions of raising another brat. Her way of making a statement.” He chuckled. “We don’t have family names, like the Alderaani or the Sullustians, though some people still use the old clan names.”

A moment later, they stepped out on a wide clearing, the sloping shapes of shelters segmented by long shadows and bars of thinning daylight. Han surveyed the scene with growing interest. “Looks like this part of the camp’s turning into a fair...”

Between the shelters, vendors’ booths jostled for attention, and from the back glimmered fluorescent garlands draped in braids across a large, circular tent. Closer to it, they found Chewbacca in Peg’s company, patiently standing in line for a portion of fried torcfish.

“Hungry, pal?” Han tousled the furry back. “I wouldn’t mind some dinner either. How ‘bout you, Luke?”

 

A short while later, they slouched by a bonfire, its rampant light leaping over a stack of empty plates. Dusk drowned all the dark crannies in velvet shades of blue and gray while Peg recounted the recent clean-up operations.

“I don’t think we’ve managed to locate all of Gol’s plants,” she said, “but we’ve copped a fair number. And now that their boss no longer pulls the strings, his agents are bound to fade out of sight mighty quick and look for new employment.”

With a ruffling of his fur, Chewbacca pitched in a savage, drawn-out bellow, and Peg flinched at the volume.

“He says he’d like to make some of them scrub the Falcon’s decks, as compensation for all the damage,” Luke translated, scanning the modulations of gray beyond the fire. Han had wandered off to find Antram’s group of brigadeers. “The whole ship still smells of sterilizers too,” he added.

“I can imagine.” Peg reached for her mug and raised it as if to a toast, a sudden solemnity cast across her face. “We’ve all been damn lucky that the virus didn’t spread any faster.”

“Very lucky,” Luke agreed. “There are over fifty cases of infection by now, but the majority are Corellian, and the antidote seems to be working for everyone else.”

Rumbling irritably, Chewbacca poked a dry branch at the fire, and a gush of sparks went up.

“Yes, we had a narrow escape,” Luke agreed. “If the Falcon had crashed somewhere in the capital, there wouldn’t have been enough time...”

Peg grimaced. “Well, let’s not think about what-ifs.”

From the far side of the clearing came a high rattle of tin, as if to mark a conclusive moment. Luke took a long swallow from his mug and felt the halo of flames ease against his legs.

In the lowering darkness, the campsite transformed into a mass of swaying gaslights and bonfires, astir with conversations, accidental music, and the shuffling of nomadic groups. Though passing glances still seized on him, Luke made an effort not to presume on the thoughts behind them. Now that he’d relaxed his guard, the blend of shifting moods moved steadily through him. No aggression, just impatience and disorientation, and something akin to the faint tension that bloomed in his nerves. Shapeless anticipation that spread and circled like the rumors travelling through the camp.

Word passed around that the giant old ghost ship had been offered to the Skylars, a proposition suspended in orbit around Corellia. By a shelter some steps away, a pair of blustery teenagers pummeled the rest of their family with demands to join up and haunt the farthest corners of the galaxy. Their voices went under in a sudden commotion that turned Luke’s head.

Out of the shadows bolted a wiry silhouette and turned a perfect somersault over a soaring campfire. Shrieks and laughter loped after the acrobat who landed tersely on her feet next to Chewie. Above the dark jumpsuit, her face floated incongruously, masked in bright blue dye. With a flourish, she leaned over to whisk up a burning branch, twirling it above her head while she drank from a small flask.

Chewbacca gave a startled hoot when she tossed her head and swallowed the flames licking from the branch. Her body bent backwards as she spit a cloud of fire into the night air — and Luke could feel the trickle of sparks with a snap of awareness that angled his attention back to the crowd.

On the edge of sight moved a tall shadow, while coins rained down around the acrobat who bowed deeply. Han’s pale shirt caught the bounce of firelight — and disappeared again when the girl flew into a pivot — yet the supple rhythm of his stride stayed with Luke, a stark afterimage in bronze and umber. Then Han was beside him, planting a bottle of malt in the flattened grass.

“Got this from the Falcon. Help yourselves.” He dropped down next to Luke and arched his shoulders at the wash of warmth from the bonfire.

“Did you find Antram?” Peg asked.

“Oh, he found me.” Han straightened with a sidelong glance at Luke. “And he tried to talk me into letting them nominate me for the Corellian council.”

Peg leaned forward. “And what’s wrong with that?”

“Aw, come on...” Han’s crooked grin mixed nonchalance with distant regret. “I’ve been happy to help out here, so long as you need me, but I’ve been gone so long, I don’t know the first thing about the problems you’re dealing with. Besides, I ain’t cut out for politics. Much less _Corellian_ politics.”

Peg shook her head at him — “suppose I shouldn’t be surprised” ― but Luke’s attention wavered when Han’s arm stole around his waist, kindling scattered notions in quick starts.

 _He’s going to leave again_. With the precision of a digital recording, Leia’s voice came back to him, her sober, unsparing tones. He didn’t doubt that she’d been right, even now, but Han’s nearness quickened a different brand of unrest inside him. _We’ll find a way, somehow_.

“Here, look at this,” Han said softly.

Someone had climbed the platform atop the large tent and thrust out a skein of colored ribbons. The light fabric spun out into graceful, weaving patterns like infinity loops that coiled and rippled to the scratchy tune of a grass fiddle. A kaleidoscope of sound and color teased Luke’s senses, and he leaned back against Han, secure in the present, while the music picked up and the ribbons churned faster.

Over the dark line of trees, the first stars shone through gauzy clouds, a dazzling margin of the future that had yet to find shape. The warmth of Han’s body leavened through him, and the fiddle’s breakneck jig wound in and out of the subtle pressure building inside him.

Before he could help it, Luke’s glance roamed up the long legs, focused with wanton insistence on the way the worn fabric of Han’s pants stretched over the inside of his thigh. Though he took a quick swallow from his mug, his mouth stayed dry and the brandy’s searing heat curled enticingly in his stomach. Without looking up, he noted the surreptitious glances Peg and Chewie slung their way. Resonant drumbeats started to whip through the fiddle’s agitation.

“Sounds like everyone’s getting ready for a dance,” Peg observed with a soft shake of the head. “Now who would’ve thought _that_ , a couple of days ago.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Luke said with delay. Excitement sizzled low in his belly at the glide of Han’s fingers down his hip, converting all the relaxed warmth into loose energy.

“Wanna get outta here?” Han’s voice, low and seductive, set off a fine shiver at the nape of his neck, and he gave a thoughtless nod.

“Time for us to call it a night,” Han announced in perfectly casual tones. “Luke’s only been released from the clinic this morning, and he’s supposed to rest himself.”

A flash of amusement darted from Chewie’s shadowed eyes and stopped automatic protest at the tip of Luke’s tongue.

“Sure,” Peg answered, straight-faced. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, and maybe then we’ll find out what the Skylars want to do with Gol’s ship.” Han batted some dirt off his pants. “G’night.”

“Sweet dreams.” Peg winked at them. An absurd flush swept into Luke’s cheeks as he muttered a mechanical reply.

Beneath the trees’ webbed branches, the fresh scent of baymint leaves hung in windless suspension. From the camp, high notes of trebling strings pierced the night with careless, flying starts and triggered sharp echoes in Luke’s gut. It took him a while to notice that they weren’t heading back towards the Falcon.

“Where’re we going?”

“Not far.”

In the near dark, he caught the brief, enigmatic glint of Han’s grin.

Like an aimless tramp signal on a dark board, the footpath meandered along the coast, climbed over a stony crest and slanted down into a narrow cove. Beneath a slumped cliff, the low tide sloshed dreamily against rounded boulders, cradling reflected nightsky in shimmies of broken silver.

“Hope you like the idea of spending the night out here.” Han gestured at the squat shape of a tent, barely outlined against the shadows of taller cliffs. “Borrowed this from the brigadeers.”

The sound of their boots on sand and grit cut a path through the quiet.

“If you’d told me,” Luke said, “I would’ve helped you setting it up.”

“Wasn’t much work.” Han ran his fingers across the taut canvas and without hurry unsnapped the flap’s fasteners. “All you gotta do is assemble the main frame, and the rest unfolds on automatic. Handy. I’ve been thinkin’ I should buy one for future camping jaunts.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” Han swung back to him, and their arms went around each other on the same, unstoppable impulse. The wind had eased, tugging softly at their clothes as they moved together, a collusion of faint rustles and uneven breaths.

Luke leaned up to claim Han’s mouth, the slight roughness of texture mingling with the brandy’s smooth burn on his lips. With the taste welled a convolution of deferred needs and fresh longing, tangled up with the past weeks’ events. All the tense waiting, the coiled pleasure and strain of having Han so close, while a short, unbridgeable rift kept them apart.

Han’s mouth opened to the pressure of his tongue, and a small explosion sparked deep in Luke’s chest. Dizzied, as if he’d been holding his breath all along, the rush of oxygen rising instantly to his head.

A warm hand closed on the back of his neck, and he smiled into the kiss, amused at the wild responses that stormed him.

“What?” Han murmured.

“I’m just... glad.”

Han’s fingertip caressed the corner of his mouth as if to gather evidence, reading the smile in embers. “Like you should be, if I have any say in it.” He tipped his head and shot a glance down the bay. “How about going for a quick swim? Unless you’re—”

“I’m okay, really,” Luke stopped him with a breathless laugh. “The doctors wouldn’t’ve let me go otherwise.”

Inside the tent, Han flicked a switch, and small lucites ignited around the metal circle that carried the canvas roof, outlining the pile of bedrolls and a capacious carryall.

“I brought some stuff over from the Falcon.” Han shucked his vest and tossed his gunbelt after it. “Got towels too.”

They stripped down fast and by unspoken consent avoided looking at each other. A flurry of goosebumps trailed over Luke’s skin — every inch suddenly starved for touch — and if he reached for Han now, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Cool air pricked briskly at his bare chest when they climbed down over the salt-crusted rockface. By the waterfront, seaweeds slickened the stones in long drapes.

“Water ain’t deep here,” Han threw over his shoulder, and slid into the languid surf without hesitation.

“I wasn’t worried.” Luke lowered himself from a flat rock, the shock of cold racing up through his bloodstream with a suddenness that took his breath. The waning tide pulled at him with glitters that stretched to no clear horizon, just a spill of constant motion and secret light, reaching as far as the sky.

Months ago, his first glimpse of open sea had unnerved him — and turned out a matchless, immediate spell. So many mornings on his secluded rooftop, he’d flung himself far out on the Force to explore the Corellian oceans, losing himself to the mystery of their green guardian depths. Now he traced the coarse grain of rock against his bare feet, the glissade of silt and seaweeds that streamed in the undertow.

Han had struck out into the bay with an energetic crawl that sent back long ripples. Sliding around Luke’s body like a covert knowledge that sank slowly to the bottom of his senses.

He turned over in the water to drift on his back. From here, the cliffs were afloat in darkness, tiny light-pricks gleamed from the tent, and he thought that Han had chosen this sheltered place so it would remember them, defining a memory at the tides’ turn. A dense quiet throbbed in his ears, a leash waiting to be broken.

He rolled abruptly, twisting through the cold surge and clash, to swim farther out, meeting Han halfway as he circled back. Every powerful stroke revealed the lines of his body, before a fan of white spray obscured him again. Dark arms parting the waves, a muscular movement that touched Luke with a fleeting sense of double vision, like intersecting quivers of time and desire.

Waves of a painted flood disintegrating into pigment, into atoms of indigo, and the rush of giant wings that brought the sea alive with its flight out of liquid blue. Part of his own dreams now, rich with private meaning.

The wavering image fled when Han dived beneath him in swift strokes that swirled the water across Luke’s skin. Han broke the surface with a splash. Another disarming grin flashed across the roily expanse, invitation and challenge that caught around him — an open game, like the future.

Luke took a dive in turn, through the dimness and the large bubbles that clustered thickly around them, a caress of air in the compact mass. Half-touching, his flank gliding against sleek skin, the water between them a supple conduit. He flung his arm around Han’s waist, pulling him under for a moment, but with a quick back-stroke Han twisted out of reach.

They plunged and dived, gulping deep lungfuls of air, until distances dissolved, and Luke lost all sense of direction between sea and sky and the liberation that pulsed through him. Short of breath suddenly, he met Han’s eyes through the spray. And turned, to swim back ashore.

“Had enough already?” Han called, wading up several steps behind. “Water too cold for you?”

Luke shook his head, his mind sluggish under the impact of raw, unsettled wanting.

“Well, you _feel_ cold,” Han countered as he caught up, running his hand along the shiver that tensed the muscles down his back. “Let’s see if we can get you warm again...”

“But not here.” With a nod towards the tent, Luke slipped from his hold and climbed the tiered jumble of rocks, releasing part of the subliminal pressure into motion.

Indefinite quiet spilled throughout the bay, rich with amorphous potential that strung him tight by the time he reached the tent. The padded tarpaulin squished softly under his feet. While Han unrolled the bedding, he scooped towels from the carryall.

Committing himself to action, Luke scrubbed the thick cloth down the length of Han’s back and up again, every ripple of muscles and breath painted out in reedy lighting and deep shadows. Han leaned against him when he rubbed his tousled hair dry, cool threads of wetness still sliding down his own spine.

“Lay back...” he murmured against Han’s neck, swiping his tongue over the droplets that trickled out of the dark strands.

Han complied with a teasing, low-lidded glance. “That means I’m gettin’ the full treatment?” He made a point of stretching lazily. “What’ve I done to deserve this?”

“Nothing.” Luke quirked a smile against the stronger tension that threatened to drown control in a single surge. “You don’t have to do anything.”

He knelt on the bedroll beside Han, caught up in the sight of his long limbs, the definition of muscles spelling understated strength, a relaxed intensity that compelled him for being completely unselfconscious.

“All yours.” Han flicked him another provocative look through lowered lashes.

“And don’t you forget it.” Luke aimed for a light tone of banter, but his throat went tight as if he’d spent the past weeks living by half, tethered up in his own caution.

He grabbed a fresh towel and set to work, starting up from Han’s feet and ankles, his free hand skimming damp skin in the towel’s wake. Circling the pronounced jut of an ankle, riding up along the lines of sinew to the muscular curve of Han’s calf. Leashed unrest simmered under his hand when his fingers skated across the smooth inner thigh. Ignoring a wordless grumble of protest, Luke withdrew to repeat the treatment along the length of Han’s right leg. Every tangible shiver and tightness of muscle adding to a private lexicon.

Expectation reached deeper into his body when he straddled Han’s thighs, thumbs stroking with gentle pressure along the profiled hipbones. Arched in mute compliance, Han’s chest heaved uneven breaths, specks of lights dusted over the tanned skin, sliding into motion. Fractured wetness glittered playful seduction from the dark curls that surrounded his half-risen cock.

The velvet hardness surged into Luke’s touch when he trailed his fingers across a strong, heated pulse, fetching a rough gasp, but he didn’t linger. Breathing low, he eased his hand between Han’s thighs to cup the warm weight of his sac, squeezing gently while he passed the towel across the taut belly. Han gasped again, and tension snapped into Luke’s groin, stirring him erect in visceral response, a mirrored flash that swept him and ramified uncontrollably. Trapped beneath his weight, Han shifted fretfully.

“Luke...” Command and question in the throaty growl.

Cooling wetness ran together at the small of Luke’s back and heightened the contrast with the pleasure that pooled dark and troubled in his belly. His touch glanced lightly over Han’s ribs, brushing the rise of a nipple. He leaned over to cover Han’s navel with his mouth, savored salty moisture with a flick of the tongue and beneath it, the distant quiver of slipping control. Water ran out of his hair to mark a thin trickle across Han’s skin. Vibrant heat shadowed Luke’s throat and brought the essence of a remembered taste to his mouth.

His fingers closed around the base of the shaft, and when he swirled his tongue over the tip, a raspy moan shuddered through the warm enclosure between them, unlocked need and exposed it to his touch. A deeper thrill ran below disjointed thoughts, incredulous and insatiate — that Han could be so vulnerable to every caress — and each moment unbraced him with swift, impatient arousal.

“Luke... c’mere...” Han gasped, both hands seizing his shoulders with single-minded intent.

Stretched out against him, Luke gathered up a taste of the sea from the wetness beading at the top of Han’s chest. Their bodies slid and shifted together in a ragged cadence, a constant loosing of desire into motion. And it churned through him in tight coils that begged release, liberation from a lock-down he couldn’t identify. Frissons chasing themselves at the push of Han’s cock against him, a reckless thrill spiking when Han’s arms wound tight around his torso and crushed them together. His mouth sealed a breathless gasp, driven out on a heady swell that felt, absurdly, like surprise. Han’s tongue had slipped past his teeth and moved in slow, intimate circles, the shared taste uncurling heat in Luke’s stomach. Capable hands moved in lazy spiraling patterns over the small of his back, cupped his buttocks to urge him closer, and he groaned, pleasure seizing in his belly with abrupt ferocity. Straining for something irrevocable, past every hold he kept on himself.

He shuddered as the fevered clenching built to a rush — each sensation escalating to a want for more — and harnessed it with a fierce attention to Han’s pleasure. His lips followed a random path from Han’s throat down to the breastbone, scattered tenderness between the sprinkles of soft lighting. His hands swept long strokes down Han’s sides and back up over the ribcage where impatience caught in shortened breaths. Countless tangents that sketched a single connection.

_Can’t stop touching you... How could I let go?_

All his senses poised, straining on the brink that kept them separate, where Han’s presence was a tantalizing promise of wholeness. But a different force reared to brake the mindless impulse.

Here, at the peak of having what he’d never let himself expect, with Han’s fervent pressure against him, he was reaching for his own limit. A limit that refused to come clear in the push and pull of urgent pleasure.

 _Hold on too hard and it’s going to break_...

A distant alarm sounded in the hollow that had formed beneath his ribs. Bucking with rough insistence, Han ground their hips together, and Luke groaned into his mouth, a sound that came from deep within his throat and made him break away. Need gathering to a flash in his body.

“You too, huh?” Han swallowed and aimed half a grin at his own state of arousal. A harsh grip blocked the thoughtless rhythm that threatened to overrun them with blind, instant release.

For the moment, no words came. Luke gave a faint nod and braced himself with the sight of Han. A slight flush on his face, and a wild glitter in his eyes.

“What do you want?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

Instead of an answer, Han threw a pointed look towards the carryall, half its contents spilled beside the heap of clothing. He levered up, reaching for it. “I need a little break here anyway.”

Luke sagged beside him on the bedding, into the quiet shored up strangely against the loudness of his pulse. A cool draft curled in through the flap, laced with ocean tangs and lenient surf that rolled across his heated skin like a spell.

When he looked up, Han leaned over him, and something unreadable smoldered at the back of his eyes. A warm pressing weight, shifting to bend his focus back on himself, and it made him restless again.

He brushed a kiss against Han’s mouth and in the same instant moved to roll over on his stomach, but Han caught his shoulder in a firm grip. “My turn.”

Slow as sound under water, the suggestion unfurled and took Luke’s breath away.

A small frown slanted between Han’s brows. “You want to, don’t you?”

Less than words, a small, helpless sound struggled in Luke’s throat. And a cutting sense of exposure jabbed at him. An old chill raised and abating under the glide of Han’s palm across his chest.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to—” Han cocked his head. “You need me to tell you it’s what _I_ want?”

“No,” Luke rasped. “I mean, yes...” A short laugh broke the strange, unwarranted tension.

“Relax.” Han trailed a light caress along his arm, slanting him a look that dared further denial. The vial he uncapped bounced the light back in glitters.

Instant response seized up inside Luke, a hard, overwhelming need that flamed past reason when Han’s fingers ran slick and decisive over his erection, spreading cool oil in languid sweeps.

“Better stop now...” Luke swallowed thickly and took the vial, solid reassurance in a sea of possibilities.

With a rustle like crushed paper, Han eased back on the bedroll, offering. Gift and demand and blatant seduction all wrapped into a single gesture.

Luke ran his fingers up along the length of his thigh, through fine dark hair, dipping to coax without hurry. Nervous anticipation cramped his insides. When he rubbed his cheek against Han’s stomach, the faint rasp of his stubble brought a short flinch, then a chuckle that passed beneath him in a ripple.

“Mmm, just like that...” Han murmured, and lifted his hips to encourage bluntly.

Bent deep into velvet twilight, Luke let his tongue draw circles across the warm skin while his fingers probed inward, and his free hand curled around Han’s cock. Setting a dual rhythm that compelled short gasps. Every stroke triggered memories of the same touch inside him — intense, melting tingles blending into the glazed heat of Tatooine. But outside swirled the brusque force of Corellian tides, wanton eddies building fast and steep in his flesh. It had been easier to let Han take control.

From a distance he felt the tug of old warnings against a possessive hunger that could veer out of control. His breath came labored with it, and he burrowed into the shimmers of sensation that surrounded Han’s presence, like spindrift over hidden reefs. Doubling the rich flow between them into cross-currents, matched and interlaced in the same momentum.

A gradual connection opened, almost complete when Luke finally raised himself, aligned the length of their bodies in the simple affinity of naked skin. Pressed close, silky hardness pulsing challenge and assurance against him. But high on the current skirred the need to claim, to own, against all the hazards of time. Echoed in a tremor that ran through Han’s frame and froze Luke in abrupt awareness. He’d been reaching out through the Force, blindly weaving a link to claim everything Han was.

And Han could read this in him, the blind spot blocked from his own perception for so long.

“Luke.” A straightforward look countered his instinctive withdrawal. “Don’t... don’t hold anything back. I mean that.”

“I can’t help it. It’s... like something I’ve always missed. Something that should’ve been there a long time ago.” His voice carried a note of apology and vague premonition.

Han’s touch found the pulse that ran wild in his throat. “What is this, you think I can’t accept what you are, who you are?”

“No.” His tone grew steadier, adapting to the stark truth. “It’s me,” Luke said. “The things I’m learning about myself. I’m not sure I’ve accepted all of it yet.”

“Would it help if I told you that it feels good?” Han drew him closer again, held him centered in the warmth of his arms, against the solid planes of his chest. “It’s not like you’re... intruding, or anything.”

Close as they were, the sound of his voice coasted soft vibrations along Luke’s skin. “How _does_ it feel?”

“Like... you.” A slow smile lifted the corner of Han’s mouth while his fingers searched Luke’s jawline and toyed with a strand that curled behind his ear. “Just more immediate. What’s wrong with it?”

“Maybe it’s... too much.”

Not tame or gentle, a force that could tear him apart and reshape him to a purpose he couldn’t guess.

“For me — or for you?” Han asked. “Look, I trust you. Always have.”

That simple assertion squeezed at his breath. And the trust Han needed from him breached a final limit, shielded so rigorously in self-reliance that he’d never felt it since Endor. Since the one violent upsurge that tore down all boundaries and left warnings like scars.

“Hey, Luke...” Han’s voice held a rough edge, sliding over the rawness inside him. “Let’s just go where this takes us.”

Confirmation of more than desire, requesting far more in return.

“Yes.” _Whatever happens, yes_. A decision made itself with a hot flush in Luke’s gut, and from here he’d rely on Han to balance him when his own control faltered.

He skimmed the back of Han’s thigh, cupped the bent knee as he pressed himself against slickened skin. Dried sea-water prickled along his backbone, the salty residue tight like a shiver. Strong legs wrapped around his torso, opened for him and positioned him squarely.

“Come on...”

The husky murmur spilled over into a gasp when he pushed in, every muscle in his body drawn taut. And the heated press of resistance made it real, a struggle for unconditional closeness. Every sensation leapt out at him, sharp and clear as if through prismatic rebounds, Han’s jagged breathing running chills down his spine.

He rocked himself deeper into excruciating pleasure, the primal thrills that ringed his advance, until tight sheathing heat gripped him to the root — _too much, too strong_ — low moans surrendered between their disjointed breaths. Straining against the deep, savage pull, Luke forced himself to pause. Anchored to the dark haze in Han’s eyes for a long moment of stillness, like suspended time.

A sharp hiss of breath relieved the waiting. Han’s fingers eased their grip on his shoulder. “What’re you waitin’ for? Go on...”

A slow, tranced movement welled up through his center where the connection between them lodged ― and the slight shift of angle sent a shockwave through Han’s body, contracting around him in blind response. Igniting a rhythm Luke pursued with relentless strokes, firing into pleasure that undercut every effort to control. A ragged moan burst past gritted teeth and caressed the side of his neck.

Closer now, the bright facets of Han’s presence cut through the dazzle of sensation — and Han pushed back against him, his mind thrown wide for the taking — until every nerve flickered with sheer power. Raising to claim and hook certainty like a leash. Luke shivered. Temptation took shape like a distorted shadow and charged him, pressing forward into possession and isolating knowledge.

At the core of passion lived fear like a hunger, and if this was the limit of love, it would burn out into emptiness —

 _No_. Luke wrenched himself to unsparing awareness. Abrasive whispers at the back of his mind that belonged to his nightmares, incurable doubt planted too thoroughly to uproot, unless —

“Han...” — rasping like sand in his throat.

A clear, unfaltering glance searched his face. “’M with you.”

Gentle hands on his body eased the rawness, the terrible moment of exposure. Kindled tremors into the stillness of a turning tide. Han encircled and held him with sure, determined strength, sweat glinting on his collarbone and the arched line of his throat as he moved in slow, deliberate counterpoint.

Holding him against the edge of risk that would always be there, though here and now it was melting down in joint abandon, in a scatter of pinpoint lights sketching and charting the night on Han’s skin.

Luke closed his eyes as a secret brightness grew — the supple accord between mercurial mind and the rhythms of muscle and bone — pulled tight and released into pleasure that swept Han and carried him along. Merging breaths and thoughts that glistened at the crest of each moment. A potent charge, coming, receding, with the mirrored ache and sear and the gasps that fanned in rapid sequence against the hollow of Luke’s throat. Awash in sensation, a whirl of star-shades and pure, relentless passion that welcomed and engaged him, piercing so deep within, it shook him with a hoarse cry.

He leaned over to brush Han’s mouth with his own, tasting salt and freedom, harsh and sweet and incomprehensible. Beyond the wide open drifts lay places that would be left untouched — elusive like the sheen of sweat sculpting every muscle in fluent lines, essential to everything Han was — and Luke loved him then for all that he couldn’t know. A hand spread against his side, mooring the heartbeat that kicked furiously at his ribs. Reaching places within that he’d never acknowledged before.

They moved together, riding and cutting waves of savage pleasure. Lost to the force of it, Luke took shorter thrusts and watched the vivid range of reactions that fled across Han’s face, intensely beautiful, a rapt surge building between the sight and the dazzled chills that struck back through his own senses. Caught to a fierce, overwhelming possession that went both ways.

Within this foreign element, Han was reaching through to him, and somewhere in the region between skin and mind opened a space of confounded recognition, like jumbled light breaking through water, breaking through them both. Splayed fingers searching for the nodes where raw feeling cohered along nerve and muscle.

And too much of every sensation refracted with fast starts into flight, until it poured all over him — _trust_ — to be known in this way, in this dark, unhinging urgency — _all of me_ — and he let go, caught and bound to all that bright, generous strength. Pressed tight against Han, he pulled back to join them again, thrusting deeply, the muscles in his arms trembling with strain, with the power turned loose between them.

Every burst of impact dragged it out of him, love and wanting released, shared and given back in sliding friction. Echoed in the deep, vulnerable sound of Han’s voice, long past words, the taut tremors that engulfed him and shattered into tenderness. Luke shifted his weight and reached a hand down when Han’s fingers knotted suddenly in his hair, his head flung back in a sharp struggle for breath that turned out a single, rasping groan.

Shudders seized around him, enveloped him as Han arched hard against him, throbbing release before he could touch, and the shock of Han’s climax ran in violent breakers through his senses. Unexpected and joyful, it sparked strings of hard, brilliant sensation. One last time, he buried himself in the depth of close, aching need that flared up his spine. Then pulse and liquid heat wrenched forth in quick bursts, his own voice coming over a distance, flung out into a breathless, ecstatic moment of loss and surrender.

It was flight and fastening, giving, reaching and falling apart. It was being.

Dense and vibrant. Wrapped around a staccato of interlocking pulsebeats. Unbounded. A sense of his own skin returned where Han’s breath brushed against him. He felt Han’s palm warm and damp against his face, a wash of loving spun out into melting thrums that ebbed slowly from his body.

He moved at last, into a full-body embrace, clumsy and dazed, until Han released a forceful breath.

“Gods, I’ve never — I never thought.” His voice roughened, fumbling for clarity. “That was...” A helpless gesture supplemented what words couldn’t cover. “Good.”

Luke’s fingers tightened on the curve of his ribs as something scrabbled around in his chest, laughter or tears or a shout of deliverance. The stillness filled out with the inrushing tide.

“Convinced?” Han’s mouth nuzzled a spot beneath his ear, and the sensation traveled lavishly through him, unobstructed and more definite than the words he found.

“How did you know?”

A one-shouldered shrug nudged his side. “I didn’t. I just noticed the way you pull back sometimes. The way you don’t want to own anything.”

“It’s... empty. Power, possession.” He wasn’t making sense, shreds of thought flitting inconsequential through this dazzled state of wholeness and unknowing.

“Yeah. The kind of emptiness that feels safe. For a time.”

A lenient silence spilled around them, mingling through far-flung amazement.

“I could feel you,” Luke murmured, “within me. And that wasn’t anything I did.”

“I don’t know how, but...” Han shifted with a private purpose, one hand ruffling Luke’s hair, coaxing his head up. “I thought I’d be whole again with the Falcon, but it’s you. Maybe that’s how.”

Simple. And it took his breath all over again. _Yes_. Bright stings mapped the feeling against the inside of his chest. “You’ve given me so much.”

“Me?” Through the remnants of connection flickered an impulse like startlement and silent laughter. “If you think so.”

“Yes...” He kissed the edge of Han’s crooked smile, slowly tracing inward. “...yes, and yes.”

Han looked at him, his body gone supple and lazy, stretched out against pure contentment. “ _I_ happen to think the whole damn galaxy’s gonna envy me from now on.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh.” Han’s thumb followed the shape of his mouth, an irreverent gleam in his eyes. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll show you why.”

Levity spread like a bubble of light and air and settled a boundless glow inside him. Luke leaned into another kiss, unreserved and unrepentant. “Anytime you’re ready.”

* * *

Light taps of rain dripped against the Falcon’s viewport. Somewhere near the maintenance pit, Han and Chewie were arguing with raucous cheer over the perks of an accidental modification. A thread of homecoming ran through the quiet cockpit, mingled with a blustery wind butting the Falcon’s bulk. Luke leaned back in the navigator’s chair, eyes closed, and stored this moment as perfection, at the break between tides.

At his back, a rattle of dislodged tools spluttered into vivid cursing. With a smile to himself, Luke fingered the brown envelope Peg had thrust at him when they’d traded goodbyes. _Thought you might like these. Come and visit anytime_.

He’d just unfastened the clip when Han’s steps rang loud and determined through the corridor. Luke cast a quick glance over his shoulder, but Han’s array hooked his attention in a heartbeat. He’d changed for the ceremony in the capital. A short jacket hugged his shoulders and waist in deep green wool and bronze trimmings that ran along the collar.

“You look... elegant,” Luke said after a moment of mindless gawking. On the chest pocket showed the outlines of a winged symbol.

“Courtesy of the brigades.” Han patted at the jacket’s front with awkward pride. “And you look — black.”

“Can’t be helped.” Luke grinned, sparing a distracted glance for his Jedi formals, and sailed Peg’s envelope down on the console. Gentle fingers brushed along his nape.

Han dropped into the flight chair and gave the Falcon’s instruments a close scrutiny. “But you’re gorgeous in black,” he muttered, as if filing a casual observation in the ship’s log, “in case no one’s ever told you.

“So...” He swiveled his chair before Luke could reply, an unaccountable change in his tone. “I’ve asked you this before. Where do we go from here?”

He remembered. And it felt more like sliding backwards into the fullness of night on Endor, the scent of bonfires and the mixed taste of liberation. Smoky twilight closing around Han as he crossed the walkway.

“And I never answered.” A shade of regret lingered and faded across a slow arc of time and silence. “Where do _you_ want to go?” Luke asked back.

“Me?” Han flipped another look at the flight console as if checking for course computations. “Anywhere, I guess. I never had a calling like you. Or Leia. Then again, I’ve had my time of traveling and fooling around.” His glance snapped up, suddenly fraught with edgy demands. “I’m askin’ _you_.”

“When Leia came to see me in the clinic, she had some rather definite suggestions for the near future.”

“Yeah, I know,” Han grumbled. “Hit the diplomatic circuit and give people the _I’m-humble-and-harmless_ song and dance at every way station.” 

“She’s got a point.”

“She does,” Han acknowledged with undiminished belligerence.

“I can’t go back to where I was before,” Luke said, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve been involved in politics long enough. I’ve spent almost a year in the company of diplomats and functionaries and members of some government or other.” His eyes tracked raindrops across the viewport, to the point where they thinned out into a fine mist. “I guess I’ll just have to compromise. Visit some of our allies, like Leia suggested. Beyond that, I’ll have to trust that people will see the difference between me and Vader.”

“You know, the people round here don’t have a problem with that.” Through Han’s neutral tone simmered implications like stray electricity.

“You think I should stay here, and play it safe?” Luke asked, picking up on what he hadn’t said. “Is that what _you_ would do?”

“No,” Han said brusquely, “but just ‘cause _I’m_ unreasonable sometimes doesn’t mean you gotta copy my mistakes.”

“The position I’m in—” Luke gestured helplessly. “Even without this legacy, safety isn’t exactly part of the bargain.”

“Yeah, and you don’t usually pay much attention to it either!” For a moment, Han glared openly at him, his reaction disclosing an offer that clarified itself only in the aftermath. A swift pang tightened Luke’s insides.

“Are you saying you’d stay here with me, if I—”

“Look.” Han braced his surging temper with a quick breath. “I meant what I said at the clinic.” A charged gaze framed Luke. “I left ‘cause back on Coruscant it felt like I didn’t _know_ how to live without you anymore, and I hadn’t a clue how to handle that, but now... now it’s that I don’t _want_ to live without you. Makes a difference.”

A small, infinite difference. Luke’s pulse skipped a beat and set in again with the soft drumming of the rain, easing into long, confused ripples.

“We can work something out.” He swallowed around a leap of breath. “I just didn’t want to—”

“Tie me down?” Han shook his head, temper still evident in the stubborn set of his jaw. “This latest stunt of yours just brought a few things home to me. Like, when I suddenly couldn’t feel you anymore, on my way to the clinic.” Atop the console, Han’s fingers clenched into a fist, blocking remembered alarm.

“I wish I’d realized.” Luke reached out to lay a hand against his wrist.

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t.” He heard the snap in his own voice, the rebellious, insensible rashness of years ago that tightened his grip. “Not if I can help it.”

And he knew well enough that he couldn’t promise anything beyond the limits of effort and intent. Adverse odds loomed from every direction, contingencies coupled with likely complications, and he acknowledged them with a passing thought. What certainty he could claim sprang from a different source, a stark core that defined who he was. That patterned so many choices yet ahead of him.

“Yeah, and here we’re back with playin’ it safe.” Han’s free hand flew up, releasing the idea for the illusion it was. “Well, next time you experiment, make sure you let me know what you’re doing. Can you do that?” He cleared his throat roughly. “Is there, like, any way I can learn how to make sense of it myself? This connection — I mean, last night…”

“Yes.” A smile broke free, and exuberance sparked without warning, launching disparate notions that stumbled off his tongue before Luke could consider. “I know we can make it work, even though I’ve never — I think it’s mostly a matter of getting attuned to it, and we could... practice, if you want to.”

Tolerant humor curled Han’s mouth when he stopped. “Why d’you think I’m askin’?”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know.” The clenched fist relaxed, opened and turned under Luke’s hand. “So... if growing roots on Corellia doesn’t appeal to you, got any plans?”

“Nothing very definite.” He glanced at the blurry landscape beyond the viewport. Soft and remote in the drizzle, blue patches marked sea and sky around the swelling of clouds. “It’s not that I don’t love it here... but I’ve been out of touch with people too long. I’ve started to look at rebuilding the Jedi order the way politicians do. As if it’s an abstract project, and it isn’t.” For a moment, Luke could almost sense the stars beyond that overcast sky. “What I should do is find others who feel the Force, learn about them, consider how to train them — if they even want to be trained. I don’t have a clear idea where to start, but... I need to get moving.” He smiled. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Are you asking me along for the ride?” Han swept an approving look around the cockpit, as if making sure that all systems were set. “You know, every chance I gave him, Rieekan dropped hints they could use me at Intell. I guess I could wrangle the kind of position from him that’d give me a lot of leeway...” He trailed off, and his sharp sidelong glance caught Luke off guard.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No.” The dark gaze didn’t waver when Han leaned forward. “Just that everything’s perfectly _right_... at last.” He looked down at their linked hands, a callused thumb stroking across Luke’s knuckles, and his voice lowered. “Maybe I’m no longer used to that.” 

Another frisson of gladness stole into Luke’s thoughts, settling in to stay. “Better get ready to live with it.”

* * * * *

The seat of government had come under siege hours ago. Han narrowed his eyes as he scanned their surroundings. Glares from hovering security craft swept across the crowds, outblazing the wash of sunset. Closer to the entrance, droids and uniforms herded the droves into something resembling order and procured safe passage for select big-shots.

 _Like us_. With a grimace, Han stretched his fingertips to the butt of his blaster. Sneaking alarm bristled in his nerves, ratcheting up to full protective mode. The ceremony set Luke up for his first public appearance since the revelation, and the general mood had reeled through so many mad swings lately, there was no telling what might happen.

“Don’t suppose we can just make a dash for it,” he muttered.

“Why spoil the fun for everyone else,” Luke returned under his breath. His shoulders were locked in combat-alert position, his smile set for nominal courtesy.

Fenced in by a crush of bodies, they walked through scorching channels of headlights and curiosity. Han darted wary glances left and right, but the traveling beams blurred everything past hope for some helpful recon. Scattered shouts and jeers went under in the drone of murmurs, holocams flashing vicious tightbeams like daggers. Han let out a grateful breath when Threepio hailed them in the overcrowded lounge, and no shots had been fired.

The protocol droid escorted them past the troubled knots of functionaries and flunkies, up the stairs, to the closely guarded parlor Mon Mothma reserved for major events. A flustered detail of uniforms flanked the portals. 

As they entered, Han scanned the ranks of elaborate dress-up that brought back the old renegade feeling in a single sweep. Pretty much everyone had a high time flaunting their own importance, from heavily decorated chests to jangling jewelry and bizarre ceremonial outfits.

“I don’t see Leia,” Luke murmured.

All around them, the crowd stilled and froze, a sudden alert moving from the center outward, passed along in grating whispers. _Vader’s son_. Han tensed reflexively. 

White as a fallen cloud at the vanishing point, Mon Mothma turned towards them. Posted at her elbow, Admiral Ackbar wore the same spotless white, though on him it looked stark more than unworldly. From a step behind, Sal Antram crunched out a smile.

“Skywalker,” Ackbar said in deep tones of satisfaction. His webbed hands came up, hovered another second like a tacit signal before he produced a thunderous clap.

Antram fell in at once, and from there, applause traveled around the room in waves that rushed Han with tingles of pride and unease. Some of the dignitaries just brought their hands together, while others clapped vigorously, making a point of it with quick glances at their neighbors. But most of them targeted Luke with the type of look that had to feel like a cheap grope.

“Welcome,” Mon Mothma said, holding her hand out to him, and after the third repeat, all the polite noise petered out into expectant silence. Her smile lingered on Luke for another moment. “We are gratified to see you safe and healthy among us, and I’m glad for this chance to express our gratitude to you and Captain Solo.” At that point, Han received a strategic glance of appreciation and acknowledged it with a short bow. “Your courageous intervention,” Mothma continued, “has helped us through a serious crisis. We are very much indebted to you and the Corellian brigades.”

From her right, a stooped Mon Cal stepped forward, the pale blue mottling at her temples shading prominent veins. “Allow me to express our respect also,” she began, strictly directing her comments at Luke. “Your actions honor the venerable tradition of the Jedi order and do you credit. And I should add that my people value personal integrity above lineage and family claims.” She paused like a regular veteran of many diplomatic frays, giving everybody time to sort out the implications and wonder if that jab at stuck-up Sullustian airs could’ve been intentional. “We also hope that you will accept an invitation to visit our homeworld, as your schedule permits.”

And with that smooth sleight of hand, she’d left a convenient opening for Luke to make a statement of his own. A slanting muscle in his jaw betrayed high tension, but at least he hadn’t struck this diplomatic minefield unprepared.

“I’ll be glad to visit your world,” he said evenly, “and I thank you. I’m grateful that you’re willing to judge me for my own choices.” He turned to sweep a glance around. “But I also want to acknowledge my father...”

Past his shoulder, Han finally caught sight of Leia. Unobtrusive and unhurried, she sidestepped a cluster of bald Aqualish and moved closer to the front. Their eyes met briefly, trading concern for primed vigilance, just as Luke said, “My father loved me, and that’s why he turned back from the Dark Side. _That_ is my legacy.”

A murky silence swamped the room, and Han could easily sense the superstitious chills ranging from wall to wall. Unnerving, to consider Vader in these terms, he supposed. Part of the crowd must’ve been shell-shocked by the note of incredible warmth in Luke’s voice — though underneath lived the lonely pressure of years, brimming restless with riddles and doubts. Between heartbeats, Han caught himself thinking of his own family with an odd blend of fondness and distant grief.

“More than anything, it’s a message of hope,” Luke added. “There’s always another way, and that’s something I want to pass on, alongside my understanding of the Force.” He paused, to address Mothma next. “Sometime in the near future, I’m going to train others in the ways of the Force, to the best of my abilities. And that’s what I must concentrate on. Which means that I’ll no longer serve the New Republic in any official political capacity.”

That announcement triggered agitated whispers among some rattling of rank pins and raised a small frown on Mothma’s brow.

“During the conference that preceded this new treaty, we talked about the independence of the old Jedi order,” Luke continued in tones of veiled steel that classified this part as non-negotiable, “and the merits of their independence. I intend to follow that tradition. I’ll rely on your understanding and support.”

Mixed reactions stirred up in low-pitched rumbles and shuffling movement, and in the middle of it all, Mon Mothma regained her speckless composure. “It is your privilege, and your burden, to choose the wisest course for a new Jedi order,” she said, raising her voice to Senate proclamation levels, which dampened the buzz almost instantly. “We shall support you where we can and refrain from interfering as we must.”

Familiar enough with diplomatic sugar-coating, Han couldn’t pick up any hint of frost in her carefully modulated voice. Just a fleeting touch of regret, maybe.

“Our priorities may differ at times, but we share the same goals.” Mothma issued a glowy smile that canceled all thoughts of trouble in two seconds flat. “And now, gentlebeings, let us celebrate the renewal of old allegiances and the forging of new bonds.”

Han relaxed into the patter of mild applause, no matter that he didn’t subscribe to this idea of a splurge. And from their bewildered looks, the group of brigadeers around Antram had been hit by the same sinking feeling.

The strained line-up fell apart into cliques and roaming snoopers while server droids started scooting through the crowd. From one of the trays loaded with drinks and miniature snacks, Han grabbed two glasses of Sullustian champagne and shouldered his way through to Luke. Shielding him with a quick move when he handed him the drink.

“I hope I won’t have to do this kind of thing again anytime soon.” Luke gave a tight smile full of relief.

“Yeah.” Han clinked their glasses together, brushing Luke’s knuckles with his fingertips. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I thought that went rather well,” Leia put in quietly. She’d materialized on Luke’s other side, and with Lando guarding the rear, they were forming a protective cordon around Luke. All the key instincts that grounded their old network still sharp and intact.

“Well, you sure took us all by surprise,” Lando joined, tipping his glass in Luke’s direction. “Hell of a heritage to live with.” In his expression flickered troubling shades of Cloud City, but his smile flashed straightforward sympathy. “I hope it’ll get easier from here.”

“After the first couple of months, I’m sure it will,” Leia said, and the jut of her chin promised mayhem to all recalcitrant elements.

With a private toast to her grit, Han glanced across the swirls of industrious socializing. Nothing much had changed in the past seven months. Give or take a couple new faces, everyone still shambled along to the same incessant beat, their body language couched in strategy and polish. But compared to their usual strutting, the Sullustians wore downright humbled looks tonight. Only two days ago, they’d returned their battle contingent to the Alliance fleet, without any grand slam against Gol’s cartel to show for their efforts.

And then speech time struck dependably, like payment due. Han salvaged a snack tray from a trundling server, passing Luke some of the bites as they retreated to a watchpost on the edge of the gathering.

Antram kept his address mercifully short and to the point, but the Mon Cal rep went through a total rehash at a crawl. With a slight shift of position, Han slipped a hand across to run it down the length of Luke’s spine, giving himself points for the loose start of a smile. The only bit of interesting news came right at the end of Mon Mothma’s speech.

“In the course of our talks, we discussed the risks involved in reestablishing a centralized government,” she said. “Our defeat on Coruscant has taught us this bitter lesson, an inevitable reminder that concentration of power in a single location invites too many dangers. We do not wish to impose our customs on any culture, and we must avoid creating an imbalance among our memberworlds at all costs.”

 _Sure took ‘em a while to figure that out_. Han folded his arms against a mixed bag of recollections. And there was Leia again, slipping into their claimed corner with a whisper of elegant silkweave.

“Hence, it was decided that several ministries of State shall be relocated to different star systems,” Mothma concluded. “It is our hope that by spreading government institutions we shall be better prepared to heed everyone’s interests and concerns.”

When applause set in, Leia wore a suspicious look of satisfaction.

“Your doing?” Han mouthed at her.

“Let’s say I offered some suggestions.” Energized and a little smug, she had a sparkle of recklessness about her. “I’d like to talk with you two,” she added, “somewhere a little more private. I’ll be tied up here all night, and I don’t suppose you’ll want to wait until all the guests have left...”

“Not really,” Luke admitted with frank relief, and Han couldn’t blame him.

Progress through the congregration was bogged down by bouts of small-talk, but eventually they made it out through a side exit. Leia showed them into a room where a pair of guards idled over a newsreel, both jumping to attention like earnest space cadets.

“Please wait outside,” Leia ordered. Her brilliant smile had the pair so flustered, they backed out with the holo still blathering to itself.

Han crossed over to switch it off when the flash to a different scene collared his attention. A vista of the docklands opened a broadcast from Eiglom Port, and next the holocam panned along the byways of destruction, catching up with a company in jumpsuits. All of them tagged as prisoners by the gleaming security clamps around their ankles and buckling down to clear away the rubble of splintered brick and lockslab. Gol’s agents going through rehab, a voice from the background specified.

Han got a brief chuckle out of that, but a close-up stopped it in his throat and brought on a sweep of something more trenchant. Even under the film of dust and soot, Slick’s hair was pasted back along his scalp like sculpted oil.

“Now who woulda thought...” Han muttered, aware by the shift of air currents that Luke had moved up close behind.

“Is that—?”

“Yeah, Jaco friggin’ Tyr, alive and bouncing for joy at his new career. I hope they’ll chain him to a nice grindstone for the next decade or so.” Han snorted. “Don’t think he’ll appreciate the irony of being grounded while the Skylars are about to go space-hopping.”

“Then they’ve decided to claim the Mantura for themselves?” Leia asked.

“Not all of them, but the count was up to three-hundred-something this morning, and I expect there’ll be more.” Han shut the projection down on a crossfade into stock-market news and leaned against the console. “I’m gonna show ‘em the ropes aboard, with some help from the brigades. As soon as it’s safe.”

“Security reports came through a few hours ago,” Leia informed him. “The levels where Gol conducted his experiments have been successfully decontaminated. No other prisoners were found.”

Han shifted his shoulders uneasily, dislodging memories of the dead decks where Gol must have tested the virus for months. Where only Corellians were supposed to survive.

“Unfortunately, all the databanks have been wiped, except for the navicomputer on the bridge,” Leia continued. “We’d hoped to find additional clues to Gol’s business contacts and accounts, to help us stop his various operations in the Outer Rim. But at least we have the files you sent us.” A wry smile developed before she added, “The Sullustians are very eager to assist with a clean-up campaign in the Iridys sector.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Your help would also be appreciated... as I’m sure General Rieekan must have mentioned.”

“More than once.” Han paused while the notion circled inconclusively, and settled for a noncommittal, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Though Leia’s mouth tightened, she let it pass without further comment. “It’s going to take a while,” she said. “Gol has distributed his funds and projects very carefully. We’re lucky that he’d set his mind on a liberated Corellia rather than his private empire in the Outer Rim. He could have caused a lot of trouble.”

Han countered her searching gaze with a bland look. His own report stated that he’d personally seen Gol walk out of an airlock. If Leia had read between those evasive lines, she didn’t mention it.

“Well. It’s over.” Her smile wavered with a strange uncertainty. When she focused her attention on Luke, Han could tell that discussing Gol’s affairs had served as a roundabout prelude to a knottier issue.

“You took me by surprise too,” Leia started, her hands locked together. “I’d hoped we’d move in the same direction for a little while longer, but—”

“Leia, I _had_ to choose.” All his defenses down, Luke took an impulsive step towards her. “In the long run, I just can’t—”

“No, hear me out," she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I understand you. Now that I’ve felt the Force, I know there’s no way your responsibilities can be combined with a political office. I’d hoped this moment wouldn’t arrive quite so soon, but I can see why you need more... breathing space.”

“I do.” Luke’s smile still looked a little pressured round the edges. “How about you, Leia?”

The ventilator hummed into silence that threated to grow heavy — until Leia’s posture relaxed with a breath. “I’ve realized that I can’t divide my life between one and the other.” Her wide sleeves fell back when she clasped Luke’s shoulders, as if reaching for something that went beyond their choices. “This is my life,” she said, “the life I chose long ago. I can’t train to become a Jedi... at least, not yet.”

From where he stood, Han could see the quiet intensity in Leia’s gaze, the force of unfiltered emotion between brother and sister. A connection that bypassed the bounds of loss and effort.

“What you’ve taught me hasn’t been for nothing,” Leia said softly. “I see so much clearer now... And besides, I’m sure you can use someone in this government who understands the needs of a Jedi.”

“Very much.” Luke pulled her into a quick hug. “I’ll be traveling for some time, but I’ll visit as often as I can.”

“You mean you’ll start looking for potential students? Is that what you have in mind?” Leia’s hands fell away, a frown taking over. “We should talk about security arrangements then. From now on, you’ll be a target for every kind of—”

“I don’t need bodyguards,” Luke cut in at once. “Don’t worry, Leia, I _can_ take care of myself.”

“Being a Jedi doesn’t make you invulnerable.”

And she had a point there, one that ranked right at the top of Han’s private priority list. “With the kind of trouble we’re lookin’ at, bodyguards won’t make a difference,” he said. “Or Intell agents tagging along, if that’s what you were thinkin’ of.”

The look Leia slung him tried to be a glare and softened into something else midway.

“It’s not like we’ll head anywhere without thorough background checks,” Han offered by ways of compromise, “and Rieekan can give us a warning if there’s trouble brewing somewhere. For the rest of it, we’ll just have to stay sharp.”

“We’ll be all right,” Luke added. “Between Han and Chewie, I don’t think I stand much of a chance of going anywhere unprotected.”

“Yeah, you got _that_ right, junior,” Han returned in a mock-growl.

“You’re hopeless, both of you!” Leia’s glance flew from him back to Luke, and behind her exasperation Han caught a touch of surprise, some startled reaction, perhaps, to the ease of the _we_ they’d adopted. “Luke, I think I should warn you that a lot of newspeople are keeping watch over your place,” she said. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if you stayed somewhere else for the time being.”

Luke shrugged. “No problem. We can sleep aboard the Falcon.”

“And activate the intruder alert,” Han added. The brief look they shared interfaced with the memory of Castor’s untimely visit.

And then he caught Leia watching them, a pensive, misted glance that sideslipped in another moment. “Whenever you want to leave,” she said, “Threepio will show you a way out that will take you safely past the crowds.” Though she struck a note of taxed patience, her eyes glittered with private delight. “But you’re not getting out of here right away. You still owe me the full story of your interventions at Yannis.”

“Should’ve known there’d be a catch to it,” Han muttered.

“And once we’re through, you can do me a favor and humor our guests for a while,” Leia finished with a smile full of mischief. “Have a seat, flyboys.”

* * *

Past midnight, they walked the last stretch to the landing pads, a layered construction rising from the harbor district. Countless tramp freighters stopped over in this area; Han couldn’t imagine that anyone would suspect the Falcon among all the galactic riff-raff tonight.

The decrepit lift rattled slowly past two unclaimed levels, raw scents of fresh locktar and beached seaweeds shredding in drifts through the wiremesh door. The good old portside aroma, Han acknowledged with a grin. Beside him, Luke worked the collar of his tunic loose and looked more relaxed by the moment.

When they got off on the top level, everything was as quiet and deserted as it should be, music pulsing from a cheap joint somewhere. Above the lift burned a single glowbulb, stretching their shadows across the landing pad, a pericrete oval fringed by a low balustrade. Han took a deep breath of the sea breeze mingled with rain smells out of the north.

It brushed his face with a memory that sailed up weightless and untroubled. A stronger wind whipping across the old barge that carried snatches of song. Some incongruous battle song from gods-knew-when, turned cheerful by his mother’s voice while she stomped across the deck and checked on the petrolite gauges.

Han could almost feel the ocean’s sway under his boots, running up to loosen the tightness in his chest. He’d kept all such recollection under seal far too long. Now it went through him in a warm drift and caught on a gentle touch to his arm.

“What is it?” Luke asked.

“Just something I remembered.” He realized that he’d stopped in his tracks and tipped his chin towards the Falcon. Night domed her with a handful of stars and clouds reflecting restless city lights. _We’ll be off soon_. And the mere thought had his blood up and racing for a heedless second.

He turned towards Luke to add something when a sleek silhouette detached from the shadows beside the lift. For a split second, it barreled towards them like a crazed residue of seven months in suspension, but his hand moved independently, had the blaster up and cocked as the distance shrank in fitful bursts. Next to him, slowed oddly to quarter-speed, Luke wheeled and lunged forward to break the impact, a hazardous blur.

Within heartbeats of each other, two guns barked plasma beams that missed their target and streaked rabid green across Han’s retina, visual echo to a jagged shout. And that voice —

Impossible. Metal clattered harshly on pericrete, a repeat blaster surrendered to the force of Luke’s kick, but the man’s unbalanced lurch took him out of the fireline and sent him flying forward, his fall converted into a fluid roll. The Falcon’s runlights caught the side of his face in an angry flash and glistened on slick black hair before he pivoted into darkness.

“God _damnit_ —” Han raced after him on a spurt of fury, past the Falcon’s dormant bulk. Whatever dirty tricks Jaco had stashed up his sleeve, they’d fall flat right here.

Brought to a slithering stop on the far side of the platform, Slick pushed away from the balustrade and angled off like a detonator from a sling.

A pale green shimmer blocked him after a few paces. Luke had rounded the Falcon from the other side, and Jaco fell away from his luminous blade in short, apprehensive steps.

Han moved up in his back. Defenseless between his raised blaster and the lightsaber, Slick had neatly trapped himself.

“Just when I was hoping I’d seen the last of you.” Ragged breaths punctured Han’s words. “Now get ‘em up.”

Jaco turned slowly, hands raised, glowering like he blamed Han for every mishap in his shifty career. And maybe he did.

“You wanna call security, Luke?” Han suggested without taking his eyes off their prisoner. “I think I can handle it from here.”

“That’s what you think,” Jaco murmured, sounding every bit like a juvenile on bliss or some other chemical crank, a nervous quiver in his strung muscles.

“It’s over,” Han snapped. “Get that through your head!”

“Tell me if he’s dead.” A guttural note of rage had crept into Jaco’s voice.

Han bit back an instant retort and met the hooded eyes squarely. “Don’t expect to see him again.”

His body registered the intent before his mind did. When Slick bolted, a loose missile hurtling towards him, a thin blade gleaming from his fingers, Han threw himself to the side in reflex —

— and Luke’s cry ripped out like a bullet —

— past the vicious rush of air as Jaco went over the balustrade, polished off by his own momentum.

There was no shout, only a harsh thud down on the street level. Shaky echoes of impact fractured through Han’s nervous system and faltered one at a time. The hand that caught his arm trembled slightly.

He straightened and pulled Luke against his side, a hard throb of pulse settling while the monotone music looped around them. Manic drumbeats that came and went with the circling of the wind.

“How in hells’d he manage to escape?” Han glanced down over the balustrade, but between the scattered halos of arclights, the street level was awash with shadows.

“I suppose that recording must’ve been a day old.” Luke’s voice was rough with alarm. “His escape should have been reported.”

“Probably was. Nobody could’ve guessed that he’d come after me.” Han rubbed at his neck. “And here’s me thinkin’ _you’re_ a prime target for all the hired madmen out there.”

“Looks like you need a bodyguard too.” Luke’s tight-lipped smile covered none of the apprehension.

At their backs, the Falcon’s ramp lowered, and an irate bellow rolled down before Chewbacca came charging out with his bowcaster at the ready. By the disheveled look of him, he’d been roused from the best part of sleep.

“It’s all right, Chewie,” Han said. “Just a parting visit from our old friend Slick. But we’d better call security now.”

 

Half an hour later, the departing flickers of ruddy headlights made a fugue pattern in the dimness below. Security had insisted on posting guards down by the lift to guarantee undisturbed peace for the rest of the night. As much as there ever was. Han looked out across the harbor promenade, edged in the shimmers of holoscreens and the candy-lights that danced out from casinos and bars. At times, the migrant lighting caught on the large fuel containers by the docks. Corroded globes like a throw of toy planets. Faint static hovered on the air and hollowed the night.

He felt it sweep over him when footsteps approached from the Falcon. Luke moved up quietly to stand beside him. “Do you think there’ll be others like him?”

“Can’t think that a lot of them’d feel obliged to honor Gol’s memory. Or that they’d blame me.” On second thought, Han added a grudging, “but you never know.”

“What about the assignment Rieekan offered you, that job in the Iridys sector,” Luke started. “Is this why you’d rather pass it up?”

Han shook his head, shoulders hunched against a sudden pang that took him unprepared. Calling up wet jungle scents and the lagoon’s hypnotic refrain. Midday dappling its lazy sundance across Luke’s skin. “Just wondering what we’d find if we went back to Ylab...”

Luke’s touch on his arm was gentle and electric, translating the spell of the past into promise. When he turned, Luke pulled him into a one-armed embrace, a tight hold that released banked spikes of adrenaline. Disparate chills running hot against sensation.

“I just...” Luke’s breath brushed warmth through his shirt, melting against his skin. “We can go there anytime you want. I don’t want you to think that I expect you to stick with me while I—”

“Yeah, and that’s such a hardship.” Han gave up on the mocking tone at the flat sound of it. “C’mon, Luke, you really think it’s so hard, loving you?” And his voice still thickened at the words, caught on the goddamn length of time he’d needed to realize —

But the pressure of Luke’s mouth on his own unwound that tangle, a soft, broken sound catching between their lips before Han opened to the contact and deepened it with a gentle thrust of the tongue.

The slow, easy force of it traveled through his bones, picked up the rhythm of his blood and strummed out a deep tremor. His hands cradled Luke’s jaw, night air soaking through his shirt and the Falcon a solid presence at their backs, awaiting flight.

When they drew apart, Han watched the mobile play of shadows, sculpting and revealing Luke’s expression, and his breath hollowed all over again. Thought returned gradually when he noticed the brown envelope Luke had brought back out with him.

“What’s that?”

“Something I wanted to show you. Peg gave them to me...”

From the protective sleeve spilled colored prints, and their high gloss captured the Falcon’s runlights, liquid reflections skidding off the surface.

“This is the fresco I saw in the Guild Hall,” Luke said, “the one that started everything.”

Sea and sky and a single star branded above a ship like the Falcon.

“And this...” Luke flipped through the prints and held out another.

Wings, golden-brown under a mist of water, diving up in sharp ascent that snared Han in a rush of fantastic dreams and recognition.

Luke studied his expression closely. “Took me a long time to find out what it all means.”

“And now you do.” Somehow Han could tell that the prophecies played no part in it.

A new kind of understanding aligned on a visceral level, just like his body had learned to adjust to variable gravity and the temporal slippage in hyperspace.

“Yeah.” Luke glanced up from beneath his lashes, and the flash of intensity stole Han’s breath. “You’re the falcon...” 

... _and you’re the sky_. Han breathed in, pushing the thought at him the only way he knew, on a surge focused and controlled by touch.

For a moment, Luke held on to him like he wouldn’t let go in a lifetime, and around that moment, a millennium turned.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

**Author's Note:**

> First published as a standalone novel in 2001.


End file.
